


What We Must

by psyche_sinclair



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: AU, Lots and Lots of OCs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-08
Updated: 2012-12-24
Packaged: 2017-11-07 06:00:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 156,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/427695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/psyche_sinclair/pseuds/psyche_sinclair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the Tower of Ishal falls to darkspawn, the mage stationed there suggests a change in plans. Somewhat unexpectedly, the two newest Grey Wardens actually listen, and it changes the course of the battle and the Blight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Trial By Darkspawn

"Get up!" The voice was rough, and the hands rougher as she was pulled up from the ground by her elbow and then half-pushed, half-thrown out of the way of a darkspawn maul. "Run!" Her rescuer turned, slamming his shield into the face of one while he impaled another on his sword, using his foot to push its body off of his sword before swinging the blade in a wide arc, beheading the first darkspawn before it could recover. Lorelei cast a regeneration and rejuvenation spell on him, and then they both ran, catching up to what was left of the group— plus Daylen Amell, a templar, and a handsome man that she didn't recognise— at a large bonfire, close to the gorge. Her fellow mage was wearing a stunned expression.

"Maker help us, they're everywhere," her rescuer said through grunts of pain— she reacted instinctively and the templar stepped forward, just as the target of her spell straightened, nodding his thanks before turning sharply to two newcomers who Lorelei recognized: the new, much-discussed Grey Warden recruit and the Grey Warden-once-Templar that the Revered Mother had been using to annoy the Senior Mages at every opportunity. "You— you've got to help us. The Tower— it's been taken."

"Taken? What do you mean— taken how?"

"The darkspawn— they came up from the lower chambers. Most of our men are dead." Lorelei glanced from her rescuer to the only other guard that she recognised, then back to the two Wardens, who had paled visibly.

"Then we have to get to the beacon and light it ourselves," the former Templar declared, and Lorelei felt her blood suddenly go cold.

"Wait," she didn't realise that she'd spoken aloud until they all turned to her, and she straightened, summoning her nerve.

"We've no time," he insisted, "If we don't get to the beacon in time, Loghain's men won't know when to charge."

"That's exactly my point," she continued, urging her mind to work faster as she remembered all the bits and pieces she'd overheard, "The Tower is completely overrun with darkspawn; you won't be able to reach it in time— but the Circle of Magi—"

"The Circle could signal Loghain," Daylen finished, and Lorelei nodded, ignoring the considering looks that she was getting.

"We can't just leave the Tower—"

"That's not what I'm suggesting at all," this seemed to give him pause, and she pressed on, "There is an alternative."

"If you've an idea," the Grey Warden recruit's voice was nearly a growl, and Lorelei tried not to look too intimidated by his fierce expression and facial tattoos.

"A small group re-takes the Tower and lights the beacon," she explained quickly, "And others go and inform the King, Teyrn Loghain, and the Circle of Magi— the Circle signals Loghain to charge, and the darkspawn sabotage fails."

"The darkspawn sabotage? I've never heard of darkspawn smart enough—"

"Can you risk it?" She snapped, and set the Grey Warden to blinking in shock. She was surprised at how intimidated he seemed, considering his past as a Templar-in-training. Perhaps she shouldn't have been.

"It is a good plan," the strange man spoke, and his dog— she was surprised that she hadn't noticed the beast sooner— barked, as if in agreement.

"We're under direct orders—" the Grey Warden seemed torn.

"Blame me, if you must," she said flatly, once again ignoring their expressions, "It will hardly matter if the battle is lost."

"You go and warn the mages, then," the Grey Warden said, straightening.

"They won't know when to signal," his companion said wryly, "Duncan didn't even tell me what it would be— he said that you'd know what to look for."

"Then you'll have to go," Lorelei said, and when she noted his expression turning mutinous, added, "The King is depending on you." He seemed to deflate, and she turned to the Templar, "Take him to Uldred, please."

"I will go to Loghain," the strange man said again, green eyes flashing in the firelight.

"I want to help re-take the tower," Daylen spoke up, and Lorelei frowned, thinking, then shook her head. "Why not? I want to fight!"

"You'll need to go find the King, and the Grey Warden Commander, on the front lines," she watched as Daylen's eyes widened in surprise, "I am— primarily— a healer— this makes me useful in a group, but weak on my own; I'd never make it, and you'd be as much a hindrance as a help in the kind of close-quarters combat that re-taking the tower will require. Daylen—" she looked away, "Be careful. Get to the Grey Warden Commander."

"So we'll be re-taking the Tower, then?" Her rescuer said, something softening briefly in his expression when she nodded. He gestured to the other soldier, who stepped closer. "Then let's get on with it." As she steeled herself for another encounter with darkspawn, the Grey Warden recruit sidestepped, pulling his bow, and fired quickly— they all turned to see the darkspawn stumble and then fall, impaling itself on its own axe. Her rescuer grunted and sprung forward, his comrade joining him, blades flashing red with blood and firelight.

* * *

"There wasn't supposed to be any resistance here," the Grey Warden observed as they reached a pause in the fighting, a mercifully empty room.

"Thought you'd get out of fighting, did you?" There was a taunting edge to the woman's voice, and Lorelei winced, hoping that her companions wouldn't fill every lull with bickering.

"I simply thought humans better prepared," the Grey Warden answered smoothly, and Lorelei quickly stepped between tattooed elf and irate soldier.

"If you have caught your breath, I'd advise against wasting it," she kept her voice low and even, "We have enough enemies to occupy us without fighting each other." The Grey Warden tilted his head, considering her, and the soldier turned away with an indignant huff of breath, and some muttered comment about Elves and mages, to which her rescuer from earlier responded with some platitude— and a name: Hilary. Lorelei made a note of it, grateful to have a label of sorts for the woman, even if it was just for her own inner narrative. "Is anyone injured?" She asked, and when she received answers in the negative, she closed her eyes, counting her reserves in her head. So far, she hadn't needed to resort to using lyrium potions, but the fighting was getting harder as they ascended the tower.

* * *

"You were right," Lorelei concentrated on the spell, only realising that he was talking to her when she looked up and started— his eyes were staring straight into her own, and he was wearing an intense expression. He grunted in pain and she dropped her eyes back to the long gash in his arm, watching as the magic shimmered over his skin and flesh and skin knit itself back together. He cleared his throat, "You were right," he repeated, and she frowned. "We would never have made it this far without a healer, and more powerful offensive spells would have done as much damage to us as it would have to the darkspawn."

"We're not through yet," she said grimly, glancing at the others. "Have you any other injuries?"

"Just bruises," he answered, baring his teeth in a grimace, and then grabbing her wrists as she began to gesture, "Don't waste your magic on bruises, girl!" She blinked, and he shook his head, looking like he was torn between exasperation and amusement. "If you were any greener, you'd be grass." He let go of her wrists, and his mouth tightened— she followed his gaze to her skin, already darkening from his grip. She stepped back and let her hands fall to her sides, something about his expression making her uneasy, and to her great relief, he turned away from her, shouldering his shield and taking his sword from Hilary. He said something to his comrade that she didn't quite hear, and the woman fell back, closer to Lorelei, just as he kicked the door open and the darkspawn rushed at them in waves.

* * *

"Wait," the Grey Warden's voice was low, and he held up a hand in a signal for them to be silent, tilting his head. Lorelei frowned, and listened to the sounds above them. "There is something very large up there," he explained, and Lorelei shared a look with the two battle-weary soldiers, using the break to cast lingering spells to bolster their stamina.

"How can you tell?" The elf made a disgusted face at the woman, then shrugged, something akin to sorrow flickering across his face.

"I am Dalish; such things are taught to us as children," he said, his tone flat. Lorelei wondered what his story was, and how he had come to join the Grey Wardens. Perhaps— no, even if they lived through this, she could not imagine convincing the standoffish archer to share such intimate details.

"Thank you for the warning," the answer was sincere, and the Grey Warden regarded the speaker with surprising respect, "Whatever it is, it is between us and the beacon; we must not let our guard down, and we must not falter." Lorelei swallowed as he swung his intense gaze back upon her before shifting his shield and turning back towards the stairs, then leading them forward to meet the 'very large thing' awaiting them on the top floor of the Tower.

* * *

The ogre roared, and swept its massive arm downward, breaking the shafts of the arrows lodged in its chest and charging as if the arrows had been little more than gnats biting into its flesh. Lorelei managed to finish her healing spell before being swept up into the air by a huge fist and hurled across the room like a spec of dust in the wake of a broom— one wielded with too much enthusiasm. Her arm hit the wall seconds before her body did, and she was aware of a sickening crunch and her own scream as her vision blurred from the pain. She forced herself to move, twisting until her good arm was underneath her, then pushing herself up into a kneeling position— she nearly fainted when she saw the bone protruding at the elbow, then she looked up and met the frenzied eyes of the ogre before it roared in pain and turned on the soldier who had stabbed it in the leg.

She forced her fingers to move, forced the sluggish magic, watching it shimmer over her arm— not enough, she'd need to straighten the break to heal it— and then there was someone there, thin fingers closing around her wrist and a force at her elbow. Her vision went black as he wrenched her arm straight, and held it as the magic worked bone and flesh and skin together. She glanced up with a mumbled thanks, to which the Dalish Warden simply nodded and nocked another arrow as if nothing had happened.

When she turned to resume healing, she nearly despaired— they were wearing the ogre down, but they were tiring themselves, and too quickly. Her blood was still rushing in her veins, so loud that she could barely hear her own thoughts. She narrowed her eyes, trying to see better through the strange red haze clouding her vision as she fumbled for a vial of lyrium potion and found none. She couldn't help but think that in this battle, Daylen would have been worth more than she— a burst of raw, wild power to reduce the great darkspawn to dust and blood and burnt bones.

She blinked, trying to clear her vision, but the odd haze persisted, and she could see the life draining out of her companions through numerous wounds, following the paths of blood to the floor— and yes, the same was true of the ogre, and when she looked at her arm— it wasn't following the blood, it was the blood! Lorelei recoiled, wondering if this was how a blood mage saw the world, each creature possessing mana in the form of blood, life force to be stolen away and used as fuel, or manipulated to their own ends. The ogre roared and Lorelei forced her attention back to where it should be, just as the ogre prepared to bring its arms down on the fallen soldier— the man that had saved her life— as he reached for his sword and shield, unable to rise because of an injury to his leg. The scene seemed frozen in some horrible tableau, and Lorelei found herself thinking back to (of all things) her harrowing, and the demon that she'd had to resist.

* * *

"Maker forgive me," Lorelei whispered, and then she reached, gesturing wildly and pulling the energy toward her like she would were she draining life or mana from an opponent, only focussing on the many lines of flickering red energy under the skin of the ogre, who howled and turned, arms still raised, and took a couple thunderous steps toward her before crashing to its knees, surrounded by a cloud of red mist.

The power was overwhelming— Lorelei could feel it burning her magical channels even as the red mist soaked into her robes, and she almost lost hold of it before she managed to direct it— some into healing spells that went spinning into her comrades, some into a fireball that exploded into the beacon, and the rest into a blast of energy that lifted the ogre clear off the floor and slammed it into the wall so hard that the whole tower seemed to shudder and several stones were shaken loose from their places.

Ser Hilary— her helmet lost in the fray and sections of her golden hair pulled free from her bun and wild around her face— let loose a savage whoop and all but flew at the ogre, still stunned from the blast, and buried her swords in its heart, twisting them until the creature sputtered and went completely still— and then they all fell into a terrible silence as three pairs of eyes sought hers. Lorelei stared at her hands— stained nearly black with darkspawn blood— and willed them to stop shaking.

When they did, she looked up to shocked, awe-filled faces, and did her best to wipe her hands on her robes, which made little difference as they were soaked through with gore. Hilary whistled, and the Grey Warden headed for the window, looking out onto the battle below.

"You were right," Lorelei blinked at the odd note in his voice as the enigmatic elf turned his tattooed face back towards her and gestured for them to join him at the window, "We— Alistair and I— would never have made it to the beacon in time. Loghain's men have already charged." His face twisted into a grimace, "Do not think to grow accustomed to hearing such things from me." The distaste was clear in his tone, as was the unspoken _human_.

"It looks like it will be a victory," the human man added, sheathing his sword and leaning out the window slightly, "Though it will be a costly one. The horde is much larger than we'd thought, and even flanking the darkspawn, we will lose many men and women on the battlefield tonight."

"Not to mention the ones we lost here," Hilary added darkly, shaking blood out of her discarded helmet. "I'm beginning to think that these creatures are smarter than we thought and that it really may have been an act of sabotage," she continued, shooting Lorelei a considering glance, "I can't think of any other reason they'd be this far ahead of the Horde." The woman shuddered, strapped her helmet back onto her head, and went to work pulling her swords out of the ogre's chest.

"I don't know what to think," Lorelei said softly.

"Then you are smarter than most," she blinked, turning to once again meet the intense gaze of the knight, whose mouth twitched slightly as he explained, "Many are far too quick to form opinions— or worse, to adopt those of others. It cripples your ability to think, to adapt, to assess, to strategise. Something that you are surprisingly good at, for one so new to battle." There was something else under the words, a sort of wary respect, and Lorelei was caught between being flattered and— oddly, afraid that she was in some sort of trouble. Which she would be, but not for her strategy. She shivered, no doubt in her mind what would face her when it was revealed that she had— had she? It wasn't like the Circle allowed mages to learn enough about blood magic to know it with absolute certainty when they saw it. Perhaps this was something else, something more benign— but no, she knew in her core that it wasn't. She shook herself, grimacing in apology to the knight who was watching her appraisingly.

"I guess this is as good a time as any for introductions," Hilary said, sliding her swords into their sheaths with a look that said she would be getting one or both sets replaced at the earliest opportunity. "My name is Ser Hilary, one of the knights stationed at the Tower of Ishal." She winced, "One of two that survive."

"I am Ser Warren," he shifted his shield, grunting in pain at the movement— Lorelei immediately flicked her fingers, and as the magic settled into him, she wasn't sure if his expression was one of gratitude or amusement.

"My name is Lorelei," she answered in turn, "Is anyone else injured?" They all shook their heads, and she folded her hands in front of her.

"Very well," the Grey Warden answered, breathing his words out like a sigh, "I suppose that you have earned the right— I am called Theron." It had the sound of both a great insult and perhaps a greater compliment all at once, and Hilary was about to voice a heated reply when the Warden straightened, holding up his hand. "Darkspawn," he said simply, "Below us, and getting closer." Hilary grunted as she pushed a barrel of oil toward the stairs, and realising her intent, Warren helped her, and she used her swords to shatter it, spilling it down the stairs. Theron edged closer to the fire, an arrow already in his hand. Warren stepped back, casting his eyes about the room.

"There," he gestured behind the fallen ogre and the cart behind it, which formed a sort of barricade in front of the stairs, and they arranged themselves behind it— save for Theron, who stayed by the fire long enough to set an arrow alight, nock it, and— just as the first darkspawn managed to come into sight, slipping and sliding on hands and knees— loose it into the oil and set the floor ablaze beneath them.

* * *

"Easy, child," a gentle hand pushed her back into a prone position, and a familiar face swam into view, "You are not completely well yet."

"Senior Enchanter Wynne?" At the older woman's nod, Lorelei started to sit back up again, only to be pushed down again and treated to a low, musical laugh.

"The young are always in such a rush," Wynne mused, glancing behind her briefly before turning sharp eyes back on Lorelei, "Case in point."

"Senior Enchanter, they are insisting—"

"She is fit for visitors when I say, and not before," Wynne said firmly, and the Templar shifted— Lorelei started when she realised that she could feel his apprehension, like an energy in the room. Wynne turned to her again, and she realised that the Senior Enchanter had noticed her alarm. "Do not worry, child, you are not in trouble."

"But— the King, the Teyrn, the Grey Warden Commander—"

"None of whom should be out of bed," Lorelei blinked at the force behind Wynne's words, "I do not patch people up so that they can re-injure themselves so foolishly."

"Please, Senior Enchanter— what happened?" Lorelei's voice was barely above a whisper, and Wynne blinked owlishly at her before making shooing motions at the templar.

"Out," she said simply, and the templar backed out— Lorelei couldn't see it, but somehow, she knew— "Go pester someone else. I have work to do." She approached Lorelei again, and took a seat next to her cot.

"May I sit up? Please?" Wynne tilted her head, then smiled.

"You always were such a polite child," she mused, then gestured upward with her hands. Lorelei slowly pushed herself into a seated position, wincing as several bandages shifted over almost-healed wounds. "So— you were asking me what happened?" Lorelei nodded, "There are a few people who would like to ask you that very question— specifically, what possessed you to countermand a direct order from the King?" She wondered if the humour in Wynne's tone was at the audacity of her actions or at Lorelei's petrified expression.

"I..." Wynne sighed, clearly more amused than exasperated.

"Oh, child— like I said, you are not in trouble," her voice was soothing, and Lorelei wanted to close her eyes and let it wash over her— but she dared not, instead focusing on Wynne's face, "Nervy as it was, your intervention may well have saved many lives, including that of the King and the Grey Warden Commander, if the rumours are to be believed."

"Daylen—" Wynne made a face, and for a moment, she feared the worst.

"He is fine," Wynne said, "And he acquitted himself rather well, or so I am told." The older woman grew quiet, thoughtful even, and Lorelei shifted under the attention. "Since you don't seem at all likely to sleep, perhaps you can tell me what happened."

She closed her eyes, then forced them open again, for it was as if images of darkspawn were burned on the insides of her eyelids, "The darkspawn came up from the lower chambers, and within moments, they were everywhere. If not for Ser Warren, I would never have made it out alive." Wynne nodded grimly, and Lorelei wondered how many accounts she'd been told— and how long she'd been asleep. "When the Grey Wardens arrived and said that they had to light the beacon, I realised—"

"You realised that they would not make it in time."

"I— suspected that they wouldn't," she hedged, and Wynne smiled, seeing through her attempt at tact, "And I remembered Senior Enchanter Uldred saying something about being able to signal the Teyrn using magic." At Wynne's raised eyebrow, she shrugged, "He was talking about how he was going to bring it up in a meeting with the King and Teyrn Loghain, and I— overheard. I'm not generally noticed, I find; people speak quite freely in my presence."

"So you eavesdrop," Wynne's tone was chiding, but there was a little twitch at the side of her mouth that suggested that the Senior Enchanter was not quite as disapproving as she seemed.

"Not intentionally, but I remember what I overhear. Sometimes it turns out to be important." Wynne nodded, a sly twinkle in her eye, and she wondered if Wynne was thinking of Lorelei's perfect record on dormitory inspections, and whether it was due to this tendency to 'overhear' the Templars and senior mages discussing assignments and scheduling. It was, of course.

"Once Theron said that Alistair was the only one that would know when to signal— the rest just seemed so clear."

"That boy was a proper nuisance, by the way," Lorelei frowned, getting the distinct impression that what was worded like derision was actually a kind of compliment, "And you were right. The beacon was lit far too late— had Teyrn Loghain waited until then to charge, the battle would have ended far differently."

"He might have been forced to retreat," Lorelei thought aloud, and then wished she could take the words back at the look of horror on Wynne's face. She shifted, "At the top of the tower, Ser Warren said that it would be a close victory." Wynne nodded grimly.

"There were many that were not as lucky as you," Lorelei found herself studying Wynne closely, puzzled at the woman's tone— it suggested that Lorelei was not all that lucky.

"I remember being all but overwhelmed," she said slowly, "I assume that shortly after I blacked out—"

"Reinforcements arrived, yes," her tone was too guarded.

"Ser Warren, Ser Hilary, Theron— are they—"

"The Grey Warden recruit is fine," Lorelei forced her mouth to close, covering her lips with her hand, "I am afraid that we were unable to save Ser Hilary, and Ser Warren— it is too soon to say." Lorelei closed her eyes, remembering the abrasive (but undeniably brave) knight pushing her out of the way of a blade, before she herself was struck by several arrows. Lorelei laid her hand against the bandages on her chest, and, looking down, noticed that her skin was flushed.

"I have a fever," her voice sounded like it was coming from far away, and it sounded far too calm, "And I feel like my blood is burning under my skin." She looked up at Wynne, noting the stricken expression on the older woman's face, then closed her eyes. "There was so much blood, and I couldn't heal fast enough—" Her eyes flew open as her mind made the connections. "I'm sick from the darkspawn blood, aren't I?" She tried to suppress a shudder, remembering the soldiers who had come down with Blight-sickness, dying delusional and in horrible pain— the shudder turned into a fit of shivering, and Wynne's hands— cold against her skin— pushed her down until she was again lying flat on the cot.

"Rest, child," Wynne soothed, and Lorelei coughed, then reached up, grasping the older mage's hand with a grip as feeble as a child's.

"Senior Enchanter," she said softly, "Have I contracted the Blight—sickness? Please tell me the truth." Wynne looked torn, and her hesitation was enough of an answer. Lorelei closed her eyes and let out a sigh. "So I am to die," she mused, "I suppose it is appropriate." She remembered that horrible moment when she'd crippled the ogre, power humming in the air and then rushing through her, then spinning off into her spells. It had been terrifying and exhilarating and overwhelming, and she had known, in that instant, that it would not be without its price.

"Oh, child," Wynne flopped back down into her chair, and when Lorelei turned her head to look at her, she looked— deflated, and her eyes glittered, "Do not say such things. You did not deserve this."

"Ser Hilary deserved to live," Lorelei pointed out, "She fought well and bravely."

"As did you," Wynne said softly, and Lorelei shook her head.

"I was so desperate," she whispered, "I remember being afraid in my Harrowing, but that was— nothing. When we fought that creature at the top of the tower— we were dead, Senior Enchanter. It looked at me and I knew that we were going to die, the four of us, and I—" Lorelei closed her eyes, and tears made cold tracks down her cheeks.

"You tapped into reserves that you didn't know you had," Wynne's voice was soothing, and yet— there was a strange note in it, as if she suspected, in some part, to what Lorelei was on the edge of confessing. She shivered and tried to curl into a ball, then cried out as her body reminded her mind that it was only mostly-healed. "Rest, now," Wynne's voice floated above her, and she squeezed her eyes shut against the hum of magic and the tingling sensation as the spell settled into her skin— a sleep spell, to which she gladly surrendered.

* * *

When Lorelei started awake, gasping and holding her head in her hands, there was a stranger sitting in the chair beside her cot. He leaned forward slightly, but said nothing, waiting politely for her to catch her breath. She turned her head to study him, noting the beard, the dark skin, and the distinctive armour.

"You are the Grey Warden Commander," she said softly, straightening and hugging her arms to her chest self-consciously.

"I am," he answered simply, appraising her openly in such a way that she felt nervous, but not embarrassed, "And you are the mage that countermanded my order— the King's order, in fact." Lorelei blanched, and he chuckled, "Do not fret, my friend, I am not here to berate you."

"Why are you here?" He arched an eyebrow, and she bit her lip.

"I wished to speak with the mage responsible, if I have been informed correctly, for the success of our battle." His face had that strange quality of appearing open and unreadable at the same time. "I understand that without your quick thinking, Teyrn Loghain would not have received the signal to charge in time— and both of my Wardens might well be dead, to say nothing of myself and the King."

"It was hardly down to me," she said weakly, and he smiled.

"Your modesty is a credit to you, and to your training," he said solemnly, and Lorelei shivered, fever still very much present. "I understand that they do not teach strategy at the Circle?"

"They do not, but I have read many books on the subject," Lorelei admitted, and he nodded.

"I have had a few opportunities to enjoy the splendor of the Circle's library," he agreed, "You are lucky to have had access to so many wonderful books. I am glad that you put such an opportunity to good use."

"There is little else to do in the Tower other that study and read," she said, then winced and turned away as a coughing fit overcame her, "I am glad that it has given me a chance to be useful," she finished once she had control of herself again.

"You have served well," Duncan said smoothly, "I hope that you are willing to continue that service," she turned back to him, sure that her disbelief was written all over her face.

"You have a cure for the darkspawn sickness?" Her voice was wry, but with an edge of desperate hope that snuck into her tone— she swallowed, hating how pathetic she sounded, "I was not aware that there was such a thing."

"The Taint has but one cure," Duncan said slowly, something in his voice and his expression warning Lorelei that there was a serious catch, "But it means Joining the Grey Wardens."

"Then my fate is surely sealed."

"Oh?" She stared at him with undisguised astonishment.

"I can't imagine that an order of legendary warriors would want me— I am hardly remarkable." She picked at the edge of her sheet, then forced her hands to still.

"You have proven yourself to be quick-thinking and capable," he said, "You saw what needed to be done, you figured out how to do it, and then you accomplished your task, against considerable odds. This is not charity on my part," Lorelei blinked; were she able to tear her eyes away from his intense gaze, she would have, "I would not offer this if I did not believe that you had the makings of a Grey Warden."

"I would have thought you'd want someone like Daylen," she said softly, and he frowned, "I've never— I don't have anywhere near his power."

"That is the mage that you sent to me?" She nodded, and he seemed confused, "He is powerful, true, but I do not think that he could have struck down an ogre single-handedly. If reports are to be believed— and considering the source, I believe that they are— you did exactly that."

"I—" she faltered, looking down at her hands, "That doesn't count."

"No? It is hardly insignificant." Both of his eyebrows were raised, and he looked almost amused. Lorelei turned away.

"It is if I used blood magic," she forced the words out, and still, her voice was barely a whisper, and she clenched her hands into fists, then turned to Duncan, whose expression had changed to one of appraisal, rather than disgust, or even surprise.

"Did you?" He asked her baldly, and she winced. Anyone familiar with the Chantry's teachings would know exactly what he was asking her— and what her confession would mean. Lorelei chewed her lip before she gathered her courage, taking a deep, slow breath and feeling her ribs protest. She was, for better or worse, a basically honest person, and she would not insult him by lying even if she felt that she could be convincing. He was paying her a great compliment with his visit, and an even greater one with his offer.

"I— think so," she said carefully, "I've never— I never even dabbled before. I never would have considered it. I just read about it." Which might have been enough to seal her fate, if anyone had taken note. She looked away, "But up there in the tower— that ogre had us, and I had already used up all my lyrium potions, and something— I'm not even sure what happened, but suddenly I was, for lack of a better word, awakened to the power in blood, what it could do, and it was— easy. I've never felt such power; I was barely able to direct it. And then the ogre was down and the beacon was lit and we had a chance and I was covered in—" she allowed herself a bitter smile, "Perhaps that was when I was exposed to the— Taint, as you call it. It seems appropriate, somehow."

"In times of desperate need," Duncan said, and she turned back to him, feeling a great weight to his words, "Some Grey Warden mages have used blood magic to secure victory against the darkspawn. It does not happen particularly often, but nor is it uncommon. Our purpose is to defeat the darkspawn, and our duty is absolute, for we stand between the world and annihilation. Sometimes extreme measures are required, as are those willing to take them."

"You— suspected," Lorelei didn't mean to sound accusing, and she started to rephrase, but Duncan dismissed her apologies with a wave of his hand.

"What I heard described was— different— from what I have seen of the Circle's magic, but I know little of such things." Lorelei frowned, searching his face for tells and finding none.

"And now?" She asked, trying for a lighter tone and falling short.

"Now, more than ever, I am certain that you must undertake the Joining as soon as possible," there was an edge to his voice, and she felt her frown deepen, "Even if what you claim is true— my reasons to recruit you do not end at magical ability. You have more to offer than raw power, and I intend— should you accept my invitation— to take full advantage of your potential."

"You would still— but I'm—" She stopped at the look on his face, and took a deep breath. "I apologise; it is not my place to question your judgement."

"It is not my place to judge," Duncan spoke simply, offering neither lecture nor reassurance, "From murderers to maleficarum, we recruit those who show the skill and mettle to face the darkspawn in battle, those who are willing to walk away from their lives and put everything on the line to ensure an end to the Blight. I believe you to be such a one, and my invitation stands— though it will mean dedicating your life to eraticating the darkspawn. I have spoken to the senior mages, and they have agreed," at the look of disbelief on her face, he added, "We have not, of course, spoken of blood magic, but they believe, as I do: your talent is wasted on a slow and painful death."

"I still feel undeserving, but— if you are certain—" she broke off again at his expression, and winced in apology, "—then I am honoured. When would I have to—"

"I will have the Circle mages start preparations, and— I will send someone in to help you dress."

"That soon?"

"Yes." He levelled her with another, considering look, "You are not the only one exposed to the Taint. There are— others, and if they are to have their chance, it must be soon." Lorelei frowned, fiddling with her braid absently, something nagging at her.

"Ser Warren?" She asked finally, and he looked startled, then he nodded gravely.

"He is such a one," he answered, then he rose to leave, "I shall leave you to your preparations."

"Warden-Commander—"

"We do not stand on ceremony amongst ourselves," he said with some amusement, "In formal situations, Commander is sufficient. In all others, especially when we are alone, please call me Duncan." She nodded, then tilted her head.

"Very well— Duncan," she said softly, "My name is Lorelei, if you hadn't already been told that." From his expression, she gathered that he had. "I— thank you."

"Do not thank me just yet," he warned, "I have done you no favours." Lorelei wondered what exactly he meant by that, as his invitation, however generous he claimed it wasn't, was saving her from immident death— either from blight sickness or by order of the Chantry. Before she could ask him, he was gone.

* * *

The former Templar—Theron had referred to him as Alistair— was outside the tent as she pushed through the curtain serving as a door; he caught her as she stumbled, held her with surprising gentleness until she steadied, and said nothing of her weakness as he led her towards the old temple. The air felt heavy between them, and she saw nothing of the wise-cracking annoyance that she'd heard described. Had he not matched the physical description exactly, she might have thought her fellow mages speaking of entirely another Templar-turned-Grey Warden.

"Thank you, Alistair," Duncan said softly as they arrived, and her escort went swiftly to the Commander's side, "And now we begin." There were others here, Theron and four other men— three human, one elf— standing to the side of Duncan, and closer to Lorelei, Warren and two others— a fidgeting dark-haired man and a hard-looking woman with almost carrot-coloured hair. There were no introductions as Duncan continued in his low, serious voice, describing the First Wardens and their desperate plight.

"And so it was that the first Grey Wardens drank of Darkspawn blood— and mastered their Taint," Lorelei's head jerked up at the words, and her eyes flew from one face to the other, looking for signs that she had misheard, and finding none. Alistair's face held a flicker of sympathy, and she took a deep breath, steadying herself. "We speak only a few words, but they have been said since the first," Duncan continued, "Alistair?" Alistair nodded, and stepped forward.

"Join us, brothers and sisters. Join us in the shadows where we stand vigilant. Join us as we carry the duty that can not be forsworn... and should you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten, and that one day, we shall join you."

"Carver, step forward," Duncan said, and the dark-haired stranger next to Warren took a few jerky steps and accepted the cup, swallowing hard before taking a sip. Duncan took the cup back, and the young man— he couldn't be older than Lorelei— collapsed, gasping for breath, his eyes rolling back in his head. Duncan waited, then knelt, feeling gently for a pulse, then nodding. "He lives," he declared, and Carver was taken away. Lorelei shuddered, but said nothing, wondering about the consequences of imbibing tainted blood— survival for now, but at what cost? "Aveline, step forward." She wanted to look away as the woman stepped forward, and the horrible scene was re-enacted.

Warren was next, and Lorelei closed her eyes, willing herself not to bolt, to run as none of the others had yet done and admiring their courage— though it was likely less courage and more grim resignation. It had not been said, but Lorelei had the feeling that those who did not step forward would be slain before they took more than a few steps back. The Joining ritual was a secret— what a horrible secret!— and it would remain one.

"Step forward, Lorelei," she blinked, finding that she stepped forward almost automatically, and took the cup. She stared into the chalice for a moment, seeing odd, swirling patterns in the black liquid, then closed her eyes, raised it to her lips, and took a sip of a poison so vile that it defied imagination. "You are all called upon to submit yourself to the Taint, for the greater good. From this moment forward, you are Grey Wardens."

She wasn't even embarrassed at the ragged scream that came loose from her throat as she collapsed, feeling as if she were falling into a nightmarish pit with no bottom as a twisted, horrible dragon screamed at her from an impossible height.


	2. Dangerous Words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lorelei struggles to understand her new role as a Grey Warden, and finds things to be rather more complicated than she expected.

"I demand to speak to—" Lorelei flinched away from the voice, harsh and angry and not in the least bit muffled by the wall of the tent.

"Of course," Duncan's voice was tightly controlled, with a distinct edge to it, "But he is not fully recovered—"

"Damn your excuses," the speaker wasn't shouting, but his voice still managed to contain no small amount of thunder, roiling behind the words, "You will not keep me from my man, Grey Warden."

"He is a Grey Warden now," Duncan's words were clipped, his tone neutral and measured, but there was a hardness in his voice, and surprise in the reply. Lorelei swung her legs over the side of the cot and waited for the world to stop spinning before she rose to her feet, and studied the inside of the tent.

There, murmuring in a troubled sleep, were her three fellow recruits— Aveline beside her, then Carver, then Warren. She was surprised that she was the first to awaken, especially given that she had been the last to drink from the silver cup. Lorelei tilted her head as another voice— younger, lighter, more sing-song— joined the argument.

"Enough, Loghain," the voice settled the argument, "Grey Wardens are needed, now more than ever. Without Duncan and his men— and their commendable sacrifice— I would surely be dead."

"As Your Majesty wishes," Lorelei felt her eyes widen as she realised to whom Duncan spoke, and she hovered by the tent's exit, fingering the curtain absently.

"Look, Duncan," something about the king's lighthearted tone bothered Lorelei, but she didn't have time to think on it as she froze in place, knowing with an odd certainty that he was indicating her, "One of your recruits is awake. I should very much like to meet him." She winced, then took a breath and stepped out of the tent slowly. "Or her," the king corrected, still far too cheery, "My apologies."

"Allow me to introduce you, Your Majesty," Duncan began formally, and the king laughed; Teyrn Loghain, stiff and tall and utterly forbidding behind him, crossed his arms and glared.

"There's no need to be so formal, Duncan," the king said breezily, and he smiled charmingly at Lorelei, who tried to smile back but found it difficult. "Ho there, friend— might I know your name?" Her mouth twitched as she thought of what she might say— what Daylen Amell, for one, would have said— and dismissed the idea immediately.

"I am Lorelei, Your Majesty," she said softly, hand going to her throat at the roughness of her voice, "I am honoured to meet you both." She glanced over at the teyrn, meeting his eyes briefly; he nodded, and she returned her eyes to the king.

"You are one of the Circle mages," King Cailan observed, and she nodded.

"I was, yes," she answered carefully.

"And now you are a Grey Warden," there was a wistful note in his voice, and she studied him carefully, troubled by the idea that he was jealous of her, somehow. That kind of awe belonged to a child who still listened to tales of heroes and knights and dragons, not to a King, responsible for an entire country. "Congratulations."

"I— thank you, Your Majesty," she didn't bother to keep the note of surprise from her voice, and she frowned slightly, noticing Loghain's annoyance, and then something else— she turned her head slightly, catching his eyes on her.

"You are the one that countermanded the King's orders," Loghain said suddenly, and she flinched— both at the hardness in his tone and at the way Cailan now studied her.

"Really?" She nodded reluctantly, her eyes still locked with Loghain's, narrowed in suspicion, as Cailan once again took over the conversation, "Then I owe you my life already," she blinked, and forced herself to look at the king and his too-bright smile. It was brittle, as if the slightest thing could shatter it, and Lorelei wondered if the King's cavalier attitude was feigned, held in place to cover a man shaken by a close— and very costly— victory.

"I could hardly claim that, Your Majesty," she said slowly, weighing each word and hoping that she didn't look the fool, "Were it not for Ser Warren, or Alistair, or Theron, or—" she frowned, unable to name the man who had gone to Loghain, "—any of the others, my suggestion would have made little difference, in the end." Cailan laughed again, and she bit her lip, bothered by how casual the king was. She hoped that it was at least partly an act, for as charming as it would have been for a soldier, no King should be so cavalier— not in Ferelden, where tyrants had been overthrown and commoners made nobles. "And had the Teyrn not been prepared to charge, or had any of his men, or yours, or Duncan's, been any less skilled—"

"Enough," Cailan was still smiling, and he clapped her on the shoulder, nearly sending her sprawling. "You must learn to accept praise better," he chided, "Especially when you have earned it."

"As you say, Your Majesty," she glanced at Duncan, hoping for rescue, and he stepped forward.

"If you would excuse us, Your Majesty, my Lord," Duncan said, nodding to the king and the teyrn. The latter still looked angry, but also calculating in a way that made her more nervous than anger would have, "There is much that I must discuss with my new recruits." He paused, taking Lorelei by the arm, "When Warren is recovered, Teyrn Loghain, I will send him to you." Lorelei frowned at that; having just declared Warren a Grey Warden, no longer one of the teyrn's men, he had offered an unnecessary courtesy. He guided her back into the tent, and she went gratefully, glad to hear the voices of the two nobles fading as they walked away, arguing in low voices.

"Duncan," Lorelei said as he released her and folded his arms across his chest, "I was never told— just how close was it? How many died in the battle?" There was something in his face that she didn't like, and she steeled herself against the answer.

"Our victory was a costly one, and it was incomplete," he said softly, "Few of those who fought on the front lines survived, and Loghain lost many of his men as well." Lorelei nodded, then made a face as she realised that all of the Wardens, save Theron and Alistair, had fought on the front lines with Duncan and the king.

"The Grey Wardens—"

"There were too few of us already," he admitted, "Less than a dozen Grey Wardens remain."

"Not including us," Lorelei said slowly, gesturing with her head toward the three other cots, and he shook his head grimly, "Including us? Maker." She glanced down at her hands, noticed that they were shaking, and then stuffed them into her robes.

"And the Archdemon has yet to show itself," Duncan continued, and she started.

"Archdemon?" Lorelei frowned, thinking back to books she'd read and tales that she'd heard, "So this is a true Blight," she breathed, and he nodded, fixing her with a considering look, "How do you know?" She felt her eyes widen as something occurred to her. "Is the Archdemon the Dragon I saw?" Duncan nodded.

"Your quick thinking is a credit to you," he said softly, and she wondered if he was holding back laughter, "Come, your fellow recruits are beginning to awaken."

* * *

"At least this one's not spending all her time emptying her stomach," Lorelei winced at the contempt in the older warden's voice as she focused on her task, ignoring the sounds of retching nearby. She touched her torch to yet another funeral pyre, stepping away quickly and moving on to the next one. She stole a glance over at Carver, looking away quickly when he returned her look with a fierce, if slightly green, glare. She had to strain to hear pieces of the Priest's blessings over the sound of the flames and Richu's ill-tempered mutterings about soft mages and boy-warriors with weak stomachs.

Richu was a seasoned warrior whose skills had earned him his place among the few Grey Wardens that made through the battle at Duncan's side. He was a good-looking man, but he lacked tact and his patience was non-existent. He was particularly annoyed at the fact that so many bodies remained on the field days after the battle— any soldiers not recovering from injury had been fully occupied defending the fortress from scattered darkspawn attacks, unable to prepare funeral rites for the fallen.

After lighting another pyre, Lorelei froze, a horrible thought occurring to her.

"What is it?" She started at the soft voice beside her, then turned to meet the eyes of the speaker— Chion, who was so scarred that it was impossible to tell what he'd looked like, before some horrible accident. Aside from his disfigurement, the most startling thing about him was his eyes, which were a brilliant, jewel-like colour that was as close to purple as it was to blue.

"I haven't seen a single Grey Warden here," Lorelei said slowly, gesturing around her with her free hand, "I know that there weren't many, but I haven't seen a single—"

"Nor have I," he admitted. He gestured to Richu, repeated her observation, and suddenly two Grey Wardens were staring her down. She suddenly felt like a trapped animal, and she gestured to the next body, hoping for an escape.

"I'll just—" she stepped toward the unlit pyre and lit it, stepping back, but before she could move on to the next one, Chion's hand brushed her shoulder. She turned to him, and he took her torch from her, gently prying it loose from her fingers with patience enough to make up for Richu's shortfall, with significant left over.

"Go to Duncan," he said simply, "I suspect that the Darkspawn have taken the bodies of our fallen brethren, and this behaviour is strange enough that he should be informed." She glanced at Carver, who still looked green, and hesitated— why send her, when he was obviously having such trouble with the task at hand? She considered voicing the question long enough to notice the thin line of Richu's mouth, and the tightening around the edges of Chion's. She nodded, then turned and headed in the direction of the King's Camp, and Duncan's tent.

* * *

"If you'll excuse me, Senior Enchanter," Lorelei tried to pull her arm away from Uldred without being rude, but the bald man's grip tightened, and she looked around for a likely source of escape— and found it when Theron, who was speaking to Duncan, noticed that she was trying to extract herself and brought it to the Commander's attention. Once they'd closed most of the distance between them, Duncan addressed her in a firm voice.

"Lorelei— you have returned," the question was implied.

"Chion sent me," she said quickly, glancing at the Senior Enchanter and then stepping away from him when he finally released her arm. Duncan's eyebrows lifted slightly, and he gestured for her to join them. Gratefully, she fell in step behind him as they walked back toward his tent, leaving the bewildered Circle mage behind. When they were far enough away, she told Duncan of her observation that there were no Grey Warden bodies on the battlefield, and that Chion had deemed it important enough to send her back rather than simply send a messenger.

"That is— disturbing," Duncan said slowly, and Theron frowned.

"You did say that darkspawn often take the bodies of the dead," he pointed out, and she wondered how something like that had come up in conversation between the two of them. She didn't ask.

"This is true—"

"But to take Grey Warden bodies specifically?" Lorelei asked, then put her hand over her mouth when she realised that she'd spoken over Duncan. He didn't seem to mind, though, and he inclined his head with a smile before speaking.

"That is my concern exactly," the Commander agreed, "The behaviour of the darkspawn has been particularly odd in this battle, and it is— troubling, to say the least."

"I remember thinking that in the Tower," Lorelei said, pausing at the odd expressions on their faces, then forcing the rest of her thoughts out in a rush, "They attacked the Tower before the Battle even began, as if they knew that it was important. It was as if there was a _plan_." She shuddered. "I thought that darkspawn were supposed to be mindless."

"Without an Archdemon to lead them," Duncan explained, "Darkspawn lack purpose, direction."

"So it is this Archdemon that is intelligent," Theron mused, and Duncan nodded.

"There are a few darkspawn that possess a rudimentary form of intelligence, and can command small groups," the Warden Commander said slowly, "But yes. Only an Archdemon is capable of leading a Horde."

"Could this Archdemon have known the battle plans?" Lorelei asked, and wondered at the way that Duncan frowned.

"I have not heard of such a thing," Duncan's tone was measured and even, but not reassuring, "But it is not impossible. Despite our best efforts, we cannot know for sure that some knowledge has not been lost since the last Blight." Lorelei nodded. "Whatever the case, we are too few," Duncan continued, something in his voice compelling her to study his face.

"Reinforcements are on their way from Orlais, are they not?" Theron's voice was soft, and though Duncan nodded his agreement, he was visibly troubled.

"They are," he said slowly, "Though we may also have to consider other options." Lorelei barely opened her mouth to ask when he held up a hand, "We will discuss it later." Duncan frowned, glancing over Lorelei's shoulder before meeting her eyes again. "What was it that the Senior Mage wanted?" Lorelei made a face.

"I'm not certain, to be honest," she said softly, glancing back towards the area that the Circle of Magi had claimed, "Whatever it is, I have a feeling that I won't like it." At Duncan's expression, she held her hands up in front of her, "Not that I said anything like that, of course, but I was more focussed on getting the message to you than on a discussion of Circle politics. I do have a feeling that it's not something that either I or the Grey Wardens in general should get pulled into, though."

"He did seem rather insistent," Theron pointed out, and in a tone that suggested that 'insistent' could be a very bad thing indeed. She wondered, for a brief moment, if an observation about pushy humans would follow, and dismissed the thought when he made no such comment.

"If anyone causes you trouble, let me know," Duncan said finally, and Lorelei nodded, "That goes for both of you, and for the others. There are too few of us to be distracted from what must be done." After a dramatic pause, his lips twitched slightly, and he reminded them both that it was nearly time for the midday meal.

If Lorelei hadn't been ravenous (curious, that) she might have considered making a comment about eating being such a high priority.

* * *

Lorelei reached the collection of bedrolls that served as the infirmary in time to see Wynne sway, and then be steadied by, a nearby templar. Without asking permission, she knelt by the man that was next in line for treatment and set the long (but blessedly not very deep) gash from neck to thigh to knitting itself closed with a gesture.

"That is not necessary," Wynne said quickly, but Lorelei waved her off.

"You need rest," she said simply, "And I am a capable enough healer. It is not like there is a great surplus, after all." She looked over her shoulder at the Senior Enchanter, who stared at her openly before nodding.

"A rest is— a rest would be welcome, thank you," Wynne said finally, and Lorelei allowed herself a little smile before rising to her feet and closing the distance between herself and the newest arrival, a woman with familiar features and short (but wild) dark hair. She couldn't quite suppress her wince when she was laid out on her side, scorched skin visible where her blackened armour hadn't done much to protect her.

"Part of the cuirass will have to come off," as she spoke, the ties binding the armour to the body were cut, and she had to reach out quickly to stop the men from pulling the half-burnt, half-melted leather away, as much of the flesh would have come off with it. "No, just the front, where it hasn't melted to the skin. The last thing we need is more bleeding." She glanced up at the woman's face, which was quite pale, and noticed that she was biting down on the fleshy part of her palm to keep from screaming. Lorelei rather admired her control— she'd managed to limit herself to gasps and quiet squeaks of pain that, while not precisely dignified, were not as distracting as screams and sobs. Not that they would have been unjustified— she must be in excruciating pain— but a quieter patient meant that she could focus more easily, and end that pain more quickly.

Lorelei healed the burns slowly, carefully mending bone, organ, muscle and then skin— as she worked, she indicated which pieces of armour could be removed, allowing her to see the damage without causing more of it. There were signs that magic had been to blame here, and the damage stretched from knee to neck, mostly along her back and right side. When she finished, she gestured for the woman to remove her hand from her mouth and healed the bleeding bite mark on her palm with a flick of her fingers. She examined the woman for signs of Blight sickness, and was relieved to find none. She hoped that this woman's luck would hold.

"Emissary?" She asked finally, and the woman nodded, then seemed to notice her clothing— specifically, gryphon heraldry on her sash.

"Yes— you're a Grey Warden?" Perhaps if she had not been recovering from quite a bit of pain, the woman would not have asked such an obvious question, but as Lorelei hardly claimed to be a genius, she said nothing. "Have you seen my brother?" At her frown, the woman clarified, "Carver— Carver Hawke. I heard—"

"Yes," she said softly, tilting her head, "He is also a new Grey Warden." The relief on her face was obvious, and Lorelei smiled reassuringly.

"I'm so glad," she said softly, "I was worried that I'd have to tell our mother and sister that he'd—" Lorelei nodded gravely. "I'm Marian, by the way. Marian Hawke." She held out her hand, much of it covered with new skin, and after a moment, Lorelei took it.

"I am Lorelei," she said softly, and might have said more, were shouts not ringing out from the gate, demanding that she tend to a new arrival, another voice suggesting that, as difficult as it was, that they should all endeavour to keep their undergarments clean. Lorelei wrinkled her nose in disgust— Grey Warden or no, it was a vulgar thing to say— and stepped forward as two of the Senior Wardens gently laid her new patient out onto an empty bedroll.

As she began to assess his wounds, she was told three things. First, that this man had been leading a doomed scouting band in the wilds; second, that he had been found and treated by Chasind— that he had undergone significant healing by someone very talented was something that she could see for herself— and third, that he was a very important person indeed.

* * *

"Where is he? Where is Fergus?" Lorelei looked up just as the very familiar man— along with his mabari hound— forced his way to her side, then stopped, staring down at the man lying on the bedroll as if he might dissipate into the smallest breeze.

"He is sleeping, and should make a full recovery," she said slowly, and the stricken expression on the man's face was quickly replaced with a blank mask as he studied her. "My fellow Wardens found him being cared for Chasind on their latest scouting mission."

"You're the mage from the Tower of Ishal," he said finally, and she nodded, "The one with the plan."

"More accurately, the one who changed the plan," she corrected, "As it was originally devised by Teyrn Loghain." She shifted, took the hand that he offered, and then did her best to brush the dirt off of her robes as he finished his frank appraisal of her person. "For what little it is worth, I am she."

"I am Aedan Cousland," he said finally, his eyes sliding away from hers to study the sleeping man, "Fergus is my brother." The muscles around his mouth tightened as he added, "And the new Teyrn of Highever."

"I had heard about that," she spoke carefully, "I am sorry for your loss, my Lord." She forced herself to look away from bright green eyes full of relief and sorrow and fury and something else entirely. She studied the new teyrn as he stirred in his sleep, "I did not have to do much in the way of healing— whoever cared for your brother did a rather good job of it." She did not say outright that magic had been involved— and she would not, unless pressed for a direct answer on the matter. It would only result in a team of templars being sent out to hunt for Chasind apostates, and the idea of anyone— hang the Chantry— being condemned because they saved a man's life didn't sit well with her. Besides, _she_ was now (technically) a _blood mage_ , so the idea of the templars leaving the fight against the darkspawn to hunt down some errant healers seemed doubly ridiculous.

"Thank you anyway," Aedan Cousland said softly, taking his brother's hand in both of his, "Without you I probably wouldn't be alive to see him again."

"Well," Lorelei shifted from one foot to the other, still unsure of how to handle all the attention that she was getting, most of it highly unjustified. "You're— uh— welcome. I'll just— leave you be. I believe that he will wake on his own in a few hours." Before he could reply, she fled.

* * *

Lorelei stopped, closed her eyes and took a deep breath in an attempt to calm herself, to bring her mind back to where it belonged and tuck the frayed ends safely inside so that she couldn't be pulled apart, examined and found wanting.

She was used to being ignored: the apprentice that never got into trouble, quiet, thoughtful and showing just enough promise to be worth a Harrowing (though the consensus had been that she would fail, that her will was not equal to her wit). There had been talk of grooming her for a teaching/mentorship role eventually, but no one in the Tower had actually expected her to distinguish herself. This was something that she'd made peace with; there is value in those who write history as well as those who make it, after all, and she had no aspirations toward fame or glory.

She released her held breath and opened her eyes to find herself standing near the tent of Teyrn Loghain, having paid little attention to her direction or surroundings during her flight from the reminder that she was no longer inconsequential, unremarkable and unimportant. There was a sort of safety in being invisible, and she felt— vulnerable, having lost something that she had almost come to value. She turned, pointed herself toward Duncan's tent, and took two steps before raised voices stopped her, held her in place as surely as if she were shackled.

"Don't be a fool, Cailan: another victory like the last and we are undone!" Whatever else Teyrn Loghain may have said was lost as the King spoke over him blithely, as if the words and the speaker were of no importance. Lorelei winced inwardly at the insult of it, and at the possible consequence of insulting that particularly speaker.

"The Empress is happy to bolster our forces with our own."

"I have no doubt," she flinched at the tone, low and dangerous, "But the trouble comes when we ask the Orlesians to _leave_. If, that is, unless you plan on asking them to stay, instead." Lorelei felt her jaw drop, and her eyes widen, and she wished that she were anywhere else. She didn't know the Teyrn or the King personally, but she had read enough of Fereldan history to understand some of what was not being said.

"And why shouldn't I? Our conflict with Orlais is past, Loghain—" This was not a conversation that she wanted to overhear. It was certainly not a conversation that she wanted to be _caught_ overhearing.

Before the... _discussion_ became even uglier, and more importantly— before she was discovered eavesdropping— Lorelei spun on her heel, headed out of the camp, and slipped into the forest.

* * *

There was something odd about the crow: it was too still on the low branch near her face, it faced her almost as if it studied her, and it had those eerie yellow eyes. Lorelei had never seen a crow with yellow eyes, never mind suspected one of watching her.

As soon as the thought occurred to her, she told herself in no uncertain terms that she was being paranoid, and that the idea of a crow seeing into her mind was a patently stupid one, born of too much excitement and too many nightmares. She had, after all, given in to the patently foolish impulse to rush away from the camp and into the Wilds, alone, where all manner of unpleasant fates could befall her. It was not unthinkable that she would jump to ridiculous conclusions when she found herself face-to-face with a strange-looking crow. By the time she managed to convince herself, the crow was gone, and she was almost ready to leave the forest and slip back into the relative safety of Ostagar's walls.

"You are right to be cautious," Lorelei jumped at the voice and turned slowly, hoping that, having survived so much already, she wouldn't be killed because she was stupid enough to seek a moment of peace and solitude where she could find it among trees and wildlife. The speaker continued, hands raised in a gesture of peace— they lowered when she lowered her own— "The Witch of the Wilds can assume many forms." She tilted her head to one side, studying the man and his companion closely. He was tall and wiry-looking, with long dark hair worn with baubles, beads and a few feathers woven through many thick braids. He wore sturdy clothing, reinforced with leather, especially around one arm and shoulder, and dark gloves. His companion was a young girl— perhaps younger than Lorelei, but perhaps not by much— fairer than the speaker but similarly outfitted and sharing the same eyes and wary, but not fearful, expression. That particular shade of amber was the same as the crow had possessed, and she wondered if it really was possible for the crow to have been more than a crow, after all. These two were clearly mages— she could _feel_ them, feel the veil twisting around them and pulling at her as if they were all bound together by gauzy fabric. Extensive as it was, the Circle's library could hardly contain all that there was to know about the practice of magic, and despite the rumours, Lorelei had not, in fact, read every book that it contained.

"The Witch of the Wilds?" It seemed preposterous, and some of her disbelief must have been apparent, for the two wild-looking people shared a look before the man spoke again.

"We have tales, among the Chasind," he said slowly, "Of powerful witches who can change their shape, and who prey upon the unsuspecting and the unworthy. Many creatures in the wilds are dangerous in their own right, but we learn to be cautious with even the least of them, lest they be far more than they appear." He paused, and his lips twitched slightly, and she wondered at that. "You are not a warrior," he observed, "Why is it that you have left your camp without an escort? It is dangerous to travel alone— even if you don't believe in superstitions, there are barbarians about." She'd suspected that he'd been suppressing a smile, and the humour in his voice confirmed it. So he thought that she was stupid, too. She was sure that once the furor around the battle died down, it would become a popular opinion.

"I am not far from camp," she said evenly, "And while I prefer the role of healer, I am not helpless." She paused, then allowed herself a small smile, "I am, in fact, a Grey Warden. Are you the Chasind that my brothers met?" When he nodded, she let her smile widen, and sketched a shallow bow, "Then thank you. Without your intervention, Teyrn Cousland surely would have died."

"He is well, then?"

"He will make a full recovery."

"What of your Chantry?" Lorelei frowned at the girl, then shrugged.

"What of it?"

"I imagine they'd want to hunt down mages, even if they saved your teyrn," the girl continued, then quieted when the man put a hand on her shoulder. She pulled away, but remained silent.

"I am sure they would," she said flatly, "But as I said, I am a Grey Warden. We are here to end the Blight, not chase after apostates. Not your Witch of the Wilds, and certainly not your healers." The girl blinked, and Lorelei wondered if she was mollified, surprised, or some combination of the two. She continued in a gentler tone, "I am grateful for every life that continues to another day, and every action that allows it."

"That is— an interesting attitude," the man said finally, looking at her like he was considering her all over again. She'd been getting that a lot, lately. "I am Efraim, and this is Chani."

"I am Lorelei," she tilted her head as she studied the girl, who copied the gesture, thick red braids falling over her face. "I will not report you, but it would not be wise to linger, as there are templars in the camp. While are here to supervise the Circle Mages stationed here, I would not discount them leaving to hunt apostates, should they hear of any nearby." Chani's yellow eyes narrowed.

"And how do you—"

"I am a mage, am I not?" Chani closed her mouth with a snap, and Efraim's mouth formed a smile that caused creases to form at the edges of his eyes. "I am far more able to predict their actions, having spent a great deal of time— my whole life, in fact— with templars and priests."

"You are right," the girl conceded, and Lorelei was beginning to feel strange about how many times she'd heard that phrase recently. It was almost as unnerving as hearing Duncan apologise— _that_ always sent a shiver up her spine, for reasons that she couldn't quite identify.

The three of them started and Lorelei turned as Alistair appeared, twigs and branches cracking and mud squishing loudly under his heavy boots.

"Oh, there you are," his breath came in short gasps between words and he paid no notice to the two Chasind as he gestured for her to follow him back to camp. "The guards at the gate told me that you'd headed out this way. Duncan needs all of us for a meeting." She turned to bid farewell to Efraim and Chani to find that they had vanished into the forest. "What is it?" Oh. Perhaps he hadn't been ignoring them, after all.

"Nothing," she answered, forcing herself to stop searching for two people who were obviously no longer there, and turning to the Templar-turned-Grey-Warden who looked half-amused, half-annoyed at her distracted state. "Let's go."

All the way back to camp, she kept her eyes out for crows— or any animal, really— with yellow eyes.

* * *

Lorelei hadn't seen Warren since shortly after waking; she found herself sharing a bench with the dark-haired, dark-eyed former Captain as Ostagar grew quieter, sitting in an easy silence— at least, until he broke it.

"People are doing a lot of talking," he said, and she started and turned to face him, "A good deal of it is about you."

"I'm hardly worth talking about," she shrugged, and his eyes narrowed for a moment as he looked at her, perhaps trying to decide whether she meant her words.

"You went against the King's orders and changed the course of the battle, perhaps even this Blight itself," he continued, sounding vaguely amused, "A Circle mage with the nerve to countermand the King, now recruited into the Grey Wardens after a battle that could have robbed Ferelden of its army, its Wardens, and its King." She looked away, and he laughed lightly, "Bold enough to take such actions, but too modest to accept credit for it... does such attention not suit you, Lorelei?"

"Maker, no," she shuddered, staring into the fire, "I'm no hero; I just made an observation in the right place, at the right time. In fact, if I'd been a better healer, you would never have been Tainted." She blinked as he grabbed both shoulders roughly, fingers bruising her arms, and shook her lightly.

"If you hadn't taken down that ogre, I'd be dead atop that tower," he hissed, "And if you'd been any less capable, I'd've been dead long before." She bit her lip; his expression softened, and he released her arms, allowing her to re-position herself on the bench. "You are not to apologise, not for saving my life, not for winning us the battle. I will serve Ferelden in battle against the darkspawn, whether as a Grey Warden or as a Captain under Teyrn Loghain. Save your apologies for your mistakes."

"What is Teyrn Loghain like?" She blurted, then covered her mouth with both hands, wishing she could place her words back behind her tongue. Warren tilted his head and smiled at her.

"He is a brilliant tactician, a fiercely patriotic, and likely worthy of every word ever spoken of him, good or ill," Warren said simply, "You have heard some of his history, I hope." She nodded. "It is unwise to make an enemy of him, and even more unwise to underestimate him."

"He does not seem to get along with the King," she said softly, and Warren raised an eyebrow, then shook his head.

"It is not a good idea to speak too often, or too openly, on politics," he cautioned, "Teyrn Loghain was the most powerful, most loyal ally that King Maric ever had, and might well be the most brilliant general ever to serve Ferelden. I served him gladly and without hesitation, but I would be a fool to subscribe to blind hero worship, and from what I have observed, he wouldn't be pleased if I did. The teyrn is a genius, as far as strategy goes, but he is not charming: he is overwhelming, threatening, and purposeful, and should he consider you an enemy, absolutely ruthless." Lorelei blinked, and Warren diffused the tension with a small smile.

"So I shouldn't speculate on his relationship with the King," she mused, and he tilted his head slightly, raising an eyebrow slightly.

"His relationship with His Majesty is his business, and not ours, and even if either or both should seek our counsel on the matter, it would be foolish to speak of it." His expression darkened, then he shook his head, as if trying to dismiss a thought. "As Grey Wardens, our focus is always the Darkspawn, or so I am led to believe."

"But—" Lorelei's breath caught in her throat at the expression on Warren's face; his lips were set in a hard line and his eyes were unblinking, shadows dancing in the iris. He wasn't angry, but she got the distinct impression that his next words were very important.

"Were this an historic battle and you a scholar, you would be free to speculate as you wished," he spoke slowly, and through gritted teeth, and Lorelei realised with a start that he was concerned for her, almost like her teachers at the Circle had been when warning apprentices of demonic possession. "But you are not a bystander, and nor am I. Think what you will but watch what you say, how you say it, and who hears you say it. The wrong opinion, the wrong words, or the wrong person to overhear you— you could very well make enemies for yourself and for the Order that neither can afford." She blinked several times, then nodded.

"I'm sorry," she said, and he laughed, shaking his head, and leaving her more than a little confused.

"You are young," he said softly, with a reassuring smile, "And you are inexperienced; you are bound to make mistakes, but there are mistakes, and then there are _mistakes_. This is one of the latter, and it would cost you more than you could pay. You have potential, and I find that I am beginning to like you for your willingness to listen, and ability to learn from what you are told." She frowned.

"I— thank you— but you're not exactly— old," she said, and he laughed again.

"There is more to age than time," he said simply, and from the look on his face and the way his fingers twitched, there was probably a story there, but Lorelei didn't ask. "Now, I see Duncan approaching; it is probably time for us to join the meeting." He rose, and Lorelei found herself following suit automatically, stepping around the fire to meet the Grey Warden Commander of Ferelden.


	3. Fitting In, Making Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The new Wardens are sent, in three separate groups, to gather the support promised by anctient treaties retrieved from the Kocari Wilds.
> 
> Alistair, not pleased at being sent away from the battle (and from Duncan's side) sulks. Lorelei is pushed into a leadership role.

Alistair glared at his pack as if it had bitten him, and huffed before throwing the thing over his shoulder roughly. Lorelei held her tongue, not quite understanding why he was so upset about being sent on a mission, especially considering its importance, but not wanting to provoke him. She shot a glance at Warren, who shook his head, and then at Theron, who simply looked disgusted. Any attempt to discuss his attitude would probably end with a display of temper. They'd all had enough of that the night before, and there was no Warden Commander on hand to silence the former templar's protests with a few words about duty and a disappointed frown.

"Let's go," Alistair said thickly, and he stormed ahead, pausing as he realised that he would have to slow down or end up waiting for her as she caught up to him. He decided on the former, but his mood remained the same, and they continued in stony silence until they had almost reached Lothering.

"Hold," Warren said smoothly, earning a glower from Alistair. Theron, apparently not all that impressed with the templar, matched his glare and gestured at the road ahead of them, which had been barricaded. Lorelei frowned, wondering what the reason was for the blockade— was it a layer of defence against Darkspawn, perhaps? She glanced over at Warren, who shook his head as if he'd read her mind, wearing a grim expression. He gestured for Alistair to take the lead while he and Theron flanked her. She was touched by the display of protectiveness— until it occurred to her that it could be to prevent her from running away in terror— and then she was touched by the display of protectiveness, having dismissed the thought forcibly. It was idiotic.

As they closed the distance between themselves and the barricade, Lorelei saw that it was guarded by armed men and made up of waggons, crates and the body of a man wearing Templar armour, half-propped up on grates as a gruesome sort of scarecrow, perhaps as a warning to passers-by. She shuddered. Alistair inhaled sharply— through his mouth, she noted— and she glanced at Theron, who held his bow at his side, arrow nocked but aimed (for now) at the stone road beneath their feet.

"Wake up, boys," a dark man said jovially, and five men rose to greet them, "There's more travellers to attend to— and an Elf, of all things. The lady is pretty, though." He leaned slightly to the side, apparently to get a better look at her, and Warren stepped in slightly to block his view. Lorelei wondered how many women he'd seen recently, and what condition they'd been in. Lorelei knew that she was far from ugly, but she could count on one hand how many times she'd been called pretty— and one of those had been a "pretty enough", as in "not revolting". Honestly, she would have called Alistair pretty before she'd have said it of herself.

"Uh, they don't look like them others, boss— maybe we should just let them pass," a large-headed (but obviously not large-brained) man said, and the leader hushed him quickly.

"Nonsense," he said smoothly, "We're collecting a toll. A simple ten silvers and you're free to pass."

"Highwaymen," Alistair explained unnecessarily, "No doubt taking advantage of people fleeing the darkspawn." Lorelei nodded, turning her full attention to the leader, and Warren took another step forward, his expression neutral except for his lips, pressed together in a thin, angry line. No one pointed out Alistair's hopefully-not-a-habit of pointing out the obvious, probably because it was preferable to sulking.

"You should listen to your friend," Warren's voice was nearly a growl, "We're not refugees."

"Duh, like I said, boss," the dim-witted one mumbled, and the leader shook his head and sighed in exasperation.

"Don't be ridiculous! That's why it's called a toll, and not a— refugee tax," he explained, still in his friendly tone.

"Oh, right! Even if you're no refugee, you still gotta pay!" The idiot actually looked pleased with himself, at least for a moment.

"And if we don't have ten silvers to spare?" Lorelei said finally, not liking the way their eyes felt on her as she caught their attention, stepping around to Alistair's other side, and away from Warren, as Theron stepped back, eyes narrowed. When he raised his bow, it would be quickly, and with a sure aim. The idea that the Dalish Elf found her life worth protecting was touching, especially now that she had spent enough time in his proximity to realise that it was a new and rare thing for him: the only other Elf Warden, an archer named Tarimel, had remarked upon it before they'd left Ostagar, and even though he'd declared it nonsense, he had looked decidedly too embarrassed for the senior Warden to have missed his mark entirely.

"If you don't pay, we ransack your corpses," the dim-witted bandit declared, and was hushed again, less gently.

"We're not completely unreasonable," the leader continued, "We'll take your possessions in place of payment."

"And perhaps some quality time with the lady," one of the other bandits, silent until this moment, chose to add his own demand, looking Lorelei up and down crudely. She stepped back in shock, and glanced at her companions— and was still surprised at the expressions worn by Warren and Theron, even though she'd half expected them. They looked positively murderous, while Alistair looked merely shocked, and perhaps a bit scandalised. She wanted nothing more than to run— to find a way to bypass the town, as Aveline and Carver had— but knew that this obstacle was only the first they were likely to come across, and shortly Warren and Theron would go their own way, leaving her and Alistair alone to face them. Lorelei leaned against her staff and watched the highwaymen carefully before she responded. Her voice came out miraculously neutral sounding, considering the panicked thudding of her heart in her chest.

"So if I understand correctly," the leader raised his eyebrows, looking amused, and she continued, "You take advantage of already frightened people, brutalising them and robbing them of their very last possessions... and the Templars of Lothering haven't driven you off their road yet? Or is that one of them?" She gestured to the broken body close by, "Are you murderers as well as bandits?"

"That was some other Templar," the large man answered, and Lorelei found that she was actually a bit grateful that he was so stupid, even when he tried to turn it into a threat, "He didn't wanna pay either."

"The Templars are too busy dealing with refugees and darkspawn to stop us," the leader answered cheerfully, shrugging, and Lorelei sighed.

"This is your last chance to leave," she said finally, hearing the note of weariness in her voice as she straightened, fingers curling around her staff, "I advise you to take it, to leave and never return."

"So you're not going to pay, then?" She shook her head, and the leader echoed her earlier sigh, "Well, I can't say that I'm happy to hear that. We have _rules_ , you know—" Lorelei couldn't tell if he was finished speaking or not, because an arrow promptly pierced his throat and he fell to his knees, gurgling and clutching at the shaft while blood bubbled up and past his lips. His comrades rushed forward, but Alistair and Warren had already drawn their swords and were using blade and shield to great effect; Lorelei was busy weaving first one spell, then another.

It was over quickly; after facing wave after wave of darkspawn, a small group of bandits was hardly a challenge.

"Well that was messy," Alistair declared, looking down at what was left of the bandits with an odd sort of look on his face. For someone who had loudly protested being sent away from the fighting, he sure didn't seem to enjoy it.

"Perhaps we should have just paid them and alerted the town Templars when we got through," she said softly, and Alistair shook his head.

"They'd've robbed us whether we paid them or not," Warren said firmly. "If we'd given them ten silvers, they would have demanded twenty, and so on and so forth."

"And we probably would have ended up fighting anyway," Alistair added, "We— we did the right thing, even if it is a little sad that we had to kill them." Lorelei nodded, then stepped toward one of the crates as the light glinted off something, catching her attention. A locket lay on the crate, open, and a note that looked to have been folded within lay beside it. She frowned, flattening the note with her hands to read it, then folding it neatly and slipping it and the locket into her pocket.

"He was supposed to meet someone in Lothering," she explained to her companions, not wanting them to think her a petty thief— or any kind of thief at all, come to think of it, "Since he didn't make it, I'd like to deliver the note, if I can." When Alistair nodded, she relaxed, "Good; let's keep an ear out for someone named Ser Donall while we're here." Perhaps he could explain why they were seeking a Chantry scholar for information about a relic that many believed existed only in stories.

"Ser Donall? Ser Donall of Redcliffe?" Lorelei nodded, slightly confused, "Yes— the Templar— Ser Henrik— is from Redcliffe as well." Alistair glanced at the body, then winced and looked away.

"I'll keep an eye out— I grew up in Redcliffe, so I— knew Ser Donall, a little." Lorelei nodded, then turned, stepping over bodies and ignoring the assorted loot that the bandits had collected.

"We'll inform the Templars," she said evenly, "Perhaps some of this can be returned to those who were robbed." They murmured in agreement, then joined her as they moved down the stairs and turned towards the town.

"There it is," Alistair declared, "Lothering: pretty as a painting." There was still bitterness behind the words, but Lorelei was glad of even the pretense of a better mood, and she happily followed him towards the town while Theron and Warren followed, guarding from the rear.

* * *

It quickly became clear that the bandits had the right of it where Lothering was concerned: strife and misery greeted her eyes wherever they wandered. The city was crowded to its limits with refugees, with fights breaking out over food, supplies and space as some of the desperate even sleeping on the dirt without bedrolls.

"Excuse me," Lorelei turned toward the voice, and found a family of Elves standing at the edge of the road, matching the tired, despairing note in the voice perfectly. They had not so much as a blanket between the three of them. She glanced at Theron and found him holding himself stiffly, as if he wished the man addressing him would disappear. She frowned, and despite the fact that the query was clearly addressed to the only Elf in the party, she was unable to ignore the sharp tug of sympathy.

"Yes?" She kept her voice even and noncommittal; she didn't want to promise help without knowing what it entailed, and whether it was something that she could offer.

"Yes, ah, my lady—" Theron's eyebrows rose, knitting together over a thunderous expression— anger brought out either by her interference, or by the way the Elf scraped and differed to her, "Might you spare some bread? My family was set upon by bandits and they— they took everything." She knew that her face softened, because the Elf flinched before he could control his expression. This man clearly abhorred begging, and he'd been forced to it.

She didn't hesitate: she was carrying the rations for herself and for Alistair, and she handed enough for one person's meal over, frowning at the stunned looks of her companions, and the absolute shock on the Elven family's faces. They looked like they'd been given a fortune having expected to be spit on. It highlighted the difference in how Elves were treated in Ferelden, and it made Lorelei particularly sad. If she hadn't been a mage, locked away in a Tower, would this even bother her? Would she consider this normal, perhaps even justified?

"It's coming out of my share," she told Alistair curtly, and he nodded, guilt flashing across his face. She held up her hand to silence the beggar before he made a show of thanking her. "Don't draw attention if you can help it— I'd hate for you to be robbed a second time." After a moment, he nodded.

"You are very kind," he said finally, and the unspoken _for a human_ made her think of Theron, and she was surprised anew at his reluctance to help his own kind. Perhaps— he was Dalish, and perhaps they didn't look too kindly on those of their kind that lived under the yoke of human rule. Or perhaps he hadn't wanted to show any weakness to his human companions. Whatever the reason, this family would have as many meals as they could ration out of what she considered to be a rather generous portion for one person. She would have to ask Alistair if her increased appetite was a consequence of the Joining— all the Grey Wardens that she had seen had eaten enough at a sitting to raise eyebrows, and none of them had commented on her own table manners.

"We are grateful," the Elven woman added, "After those bandits..."

"The ones on the road?" Theron asked, and when the Elf man nodded, both men clearly uncomfortable with each other, he added, "We met those bandits, too."

"So you were robbed as well? But—" Theron was shaking his head at the Elf woman's disbelieving exclamation.

"No. They are dead." He said simply, his tone filled with disgust; Lorelei wasn't sure if it was directed towards bandits or beggars.

"Then perhaps some of our things are still there!" The woman's face lit up with hope and the family headed back towards the gates of Lothering. Lorelei watched Theron's face for a moment too long, and he scowled at her.

"Will you next be rescuing baby birds from trees?" He snapped, and she shrugged, "There is not time enough to help everyone, nor solve every petty grievance." His scowl deepened, "I hope that your heart does not bleed as freely as hers, Alistair." There was censure there, and Alistair bristled. Lorelei knew that she could not let this escalate into an argument, and she spoke quickly.

"Warren, you and Theron will be headed East to find the Dalish, right?" Warren nodded, his expression making it clear that he knew exactly what she was doing— not that she had been terribly subtle.

"Yes," he answered, gesturing to Theron. "We can cover a good bit of ground if we make haste." Theron's eyes were narrowed slits, grey as an approaching storm, but something in his face spoke of concern, rather than anger.

"Maker watch over you, Warren," she said gently, "And may your gods watch over you, Theron." Both of them nodded stiffly, Theron's expression softening in a rare gesture that Lorelei suspected she saw more of than any other human the Dalish-Hunter-turned-Grey-Warden interacted with.

"Maker watch over us all," Warren answered smoothly, and with a small smile.

Argument thwarted and participants headed in different directions, Lorelei followed Alistair towards the Chantry, catching Warren's wave and wry smile.

* * *

"I guess it couldn't be helped," Ser Bryant said, regret clear in his voice, "Still, it is sad that it had to come to that."

"I agree," she said softly, "The darkspawn are enough of a threat without us having to fight each other."

"So you are a Grey Warden, then?" She was tempted to ask what his first indication had been— she and Alistair were clearly wearing Grey Warden heraldry, she on her sash and he on the tunic he wore over his splint mail— but she forced herself to simply nod. "We've had some scattered attacks by darkspawn, and I was wondering if you had any advice about how to combat them, and how to— dispose of the bodies." Ah, this was a sensible question.

"The bodies must be burned, as must anything that becomes Tainted, or the Blight sickness will spread to anything they touch," she knew this much, though she hadn't had time to learn much more after her Joining. "You'll want to strengthen your fortifications as much as you can, recruit all who can fight and encourage as many as possible to seek refuge further north. You cannot effectively defend the numbers that you have here now." This was simple defensive strategy, and it was something that the Knight-Captain had surely already realised, but it bore repeating.

"Is there anything else that I can help you with?" The question was mostly a courtesy— there was little that Lothering or Ser Bryant could offer. Luckily, all she really needed was information.

"I was told that there was a knight from Redcliffe here, named Ser Donall," Alistair straightened, and she realised that he must have been waiting for this topic. She fought a smile; Alistair was rather good at appearing to be paying attention— right up until he actually became interested and revealed the difference.

"Yes," Ser Bryant was uneasy, and this put Lorelei on her guard, "He's here seeking clues to the location of the Urn of Andraste's Ashes." He clearly didn't believe in its existence, but as Lorelei wasn't sure that she did either, she could hardly find fault with him for it. "He's just over there," she followed his gesture to a man leaned over a book and wearing that frown worn specifically by those who read sparingly when forced to study a particularly obscure tome, "You should ask him about it." There was disgust in his tone, and Lorelei understood— he was faced with defending an entire town against attacks that could come from anywhere, and at any time, and he had little patience for soldiers who read books instead of fighting. Alistair was already crossing the chantry floor to meet the Knight, and Lorelei quickly thanked the Templar and caught up to him in several steps.

"Ser Donall?"

"Who— Alistair? By the Maker, it is you! It is good to see you!" His arms were spread wide in greeting, though they fell to his sides as Lorelei made it to Alistair's side. "And who is this? A fellow Grey Warden, I suppose." She was beginning to wonder how many people, exactly, would find it necessary to state what should have been made obvious by the heraldry on her sash, as well as the deep grey colouring of her robes.

"I'm afraid that we bring bad news, Ser Donall," she said slowly, and watched Alistair's face fall. "I believe that your friend, Ser Henrik, is dead." She dug into her pocket and produced locket and note, holding them for him to take. He stared at her, then at her hands, as she continued, "We found these on the body of a templar slain on the road."

"Ser Henrik? Dead?" She knew that he was in shock, so she simply nodded, withdrawing her hands when he finally reached out and took the templar's note and keepsake from her. "This is his locket, and his writing." Lorelei looked away to give him a moment for his grief, and noticed that Alistair had done the same. When she looked back, Ser Donall had already collected himself. "Thank you for bringing me this," he said finally, pulling himself straighter and reminding her that warriors were _big_ , "Who knows how many of us have met similar fates on this doomed quest. Well, I— it was good to see you, Alistair, and to meet you, my lady, but I really should head back to Redcliffe." Alistair looked like he was going to say something, but closed his mouth quickly when Lorelei shook her head, and offered a polite farewell to the knight, who gratefully retreated.

"Why?"

"He just lost his friend, Alistair," she explained in a careful voice, "We could pepper him with questions, and I have no doubt that he would answer out of politeness, but— do we really need to interrogate a grieving man when we will have all our answers soon enough? We are headed to Redcliffe, after all."

"I just thought it would be good to know what was waiting for us." He was right, of course, but Lorelei had let her feelings win with this one. She decided to admit as much.

"Sometimes," she said ruefully, "I am sentimental rather than practical." He seemed to understand, and after a moment, he grinned.

"Your secret is safe with me," he drawled, and she smiled back.

"We should pay a visit to the Revered Mother, just as a courtesy," she headed towards the small back room.

"Right," Alistair lengthened the vowel as he caught up to her, and she almost laughed at the conspiratorial whisper that followed, "I won't tell anyone about your religious devotion, either. I wouldn't want the rest of the mages to un-invite you to all the best parties."

"Maker forbid," she almost rolled her eyes, but remembered that she prefered the Alistair that made wise-cracks to the broody alternative. As they reached the doorway to the Revered Mother's office, they stopped just short of stepping through as they realised that the Revered Mother was in the midst of a conversation.

"He is obviously repentant." The speaker had a musical voice and an accent that was undeniably Orlesian.

"His fate is in the hands of the Maker," Lorelei froze just outside the door, recognising the hard edge to the woman's voice.

"To be left to starve, or to be taken by the darkspawn? No one deserves that— not even a murderer." Lorelei knew the sound of a voice that was trying to be persuasive, though she suspected that this speaker was far more adept at the art than any Apprentice trying to wriggle out of a punishment. She managed to avoid sounding condescending, needling, or judgemental— in fact, it reminded her distinctly of the First Enchanter, or even Duncan. She wasn't even in the room and she wanted to grant this stranger her wish!

"You believe that I should set him free, to kill again? His next victims would count us among their murderers, Leliana!" There was a pause, then, "I will not discuss this further, especially not in front of visitors." Ah, they were caught. Lorelei forced her back straight and stepped through the doorway.

"My apologies, your Reverence," she hoped that her tone carried the right weight— as a Grey Warden, she could not appear _too_ contrite any more than she could be rude, "We did not wish to interrupt."

"What can I do for you, Grey Wardens?" She gestured to the younger woman in dismissal and focused on Alistair, who shifted uncomfortably under her gaze. She had to frown— not because the Revered Mother obviously assumed that Alistair was in charge, but because of how he reacted to the idea. She hadn't thought that Alistair might dislike attention as much as she did. She had always assumed that ultimately, as the senior Grey Warden, he would take charge. Perhaps this was why Duncan had paired them together— not because she was a mage and he was conveniently a templar, but because they were both too willing to submit to another's leadership. It would make sense.

"You are truly Grey Wardens?" The woman had very red hair, and very blue eyes, and her voice sounded as if she'd been doing a great deal of running. Lorelei suppressed a wince— hero worship, and apparently a lack in the area of realising the obvious. "Of course you are. No one would pretend to be a Grey Warden." She smiled, and Lorelei felt her own eyes narrow as she saw something in the woman's face that she had learned to recognise and be wary of: _cunning_.

"We are," she answered slowly, inclining her head to the Revered Mother, who seemed suddenly as cautious as she was.

"Then perhaps—" she turned to the Revered Mother, an odd look in her eyes, "Perhaps with the Grey Wardens, the Qunari could do some good."

"Leliana—"

"Qunari?" Lorelei and the Revered Mother spoke at the same time, and Lorelei winced in apology. "My apologies, your Reverence." The older woman sighed, eyeing Leliana with the same look that she'd seen the First Enchanter give Daylen once— a mix of fondness, indulgence, and frustration.

"A giant from the North," the Revered Mother explained, "We found him in a farm hold among the bodies of the family that he slaughtered— children among them. He didn't even deny the charge."

"He is locked in a cage by the north entrance, without food or water." Leilana's horror seemed to match her own, and Lorelei found herself in agreement with the redhead's earlier statement. No one deserved that— not even a murderer. Even a blood mage could count on a quick death.

"You believe him to be repentant?" Lorelei asked, the tone of her voice probably too sharp, too disapproving. Duncan would grace her with one of his looks, were he here. Perhaps she would become as adept at annoying priests as Alistair was at annoying mages. "I— I am sorry, your Reverence," she said, hoping not to incite too much anger, "But perhaps the Sister's suggestion holds some merit. If he is willing to join the fight against the darkspawn—"

"You would recruit a murderer?" It was the priest who spoke, but it might as well have been Alistair, if she was reading his expression correctly. She fought the urge to shrink back from their combined censure, to beg forgiveness and offer all sorts of platitudes if only it meant that the whole world could go back to ignoring her. She did none of these things, remembering something that Duncan had told her.

"If he is willing and able to fight the darkspawn, then yes, I would have him join us rather than die," she was, no doubt, in for a lecture from Alistair, though he did not speak against her now, in front of witnesses, "The Grey Wardens are not in the habit of wasting resources." The Revered Mother snorted, when she looked at Leliana, her resolve seemed softened.

"Very well," she said finally, shocking both Wardens as she pressed a key into Lorelei's hand, "If the Qunari agrees to join you, and if you trust his word," she leaned on the word _trust_ , likely to imply that they were idiotic to do so, "You may take him into your custody. I must ask, however, that should you do so, you leave Lothering immediately. The Bann has left me in charge, and I will not betray his trust. I have a sacred duty to the people in this town and I will not be responsible for harm coming to them." Lorelei nodded, closing her fingers tightly around the key that would free a man that she had never met— a man that had murdered an entire family, including children. The sister looked radiant in her triumph, and Lorelei turned away from her bright face and shining eyes. Maker, she hated hero worship. If _this_ was how people looked at Teyrn Loghain on a regular basis, _no wonder_ he was so cranky.

She let Alistair lead her out of the chantry with long, angry steps and barely noticed that the redheaded sister followed them.

* * *

"Are you really going to recruit him?" Lorelei stopped just short of slamming her face into Alistair's breastplate as he turned, staring down at her with obvious disapproval. She had to lift her chin as far as it would go just to see his chin, and take a few steps backward to actually meet his gaze. "This goes beyond sentimental; it's insane! And what was this 'not in the habit of wasting resources' bit? If Duncan were here—"

"If Duncan were here, he would have made the same decision— and you would not have challenged him." She didn't say the _I think_ that she thought, trying very hard to keep her promise not to back down to pressure so easily. Alistair pouted, clearly hurt, and Lorelei bit the inside of her lip to keep herself from capitulating. It was like kicking a puppy, and Lorelei forced herself to continue before she lost the shredded scraps of her reserve. "We were sent out to get reinforcements."

"Joining the Grey Wardens is an _honour_ ," Alistair ground out, obviously unaware of the circumstances surrounding her own recruitment. She didn't exactly wish to have a discussion with Alistair about blood mages, so she took the conversation in the easiest direction.

"I did not intend to recruit him into the Grey Wardens," it was a truthful answer, even she'd given it to guide the conversation away from the whole 'honour' direction, "That is a decision that only Duncan could make, and I wouldn't dare presume such authority. The army needs soldiers too much to refuse anyone who is willing and capable, and I am sure that a warrior's death is preferable to starvation, wherever he is from." _Whatever he is._ He seemed to deflate, and she was glad to see the end of the argument.

"You intend to leave him if he refuses," he said flatly.

"Or kill him, if it comes to that," she couldn't keep the sadness from her voice. She didn't know if she _could_ kill him, but she didn't know if she could bear the guilt if she left anyone to the mercy of the darkspawn— or to slowly starve to death, for that matter.

"So, what, we just free him and tell him to head to Ostagar?"

"No, he comes with us. We'll explain everything to Duncan when we return, and he will decide what to do." It was a long moment of Alistair staring at her before he cleared his throat.

"Well. I guess we should get to it." He was quite clearly still angry, and she sighed— it was going to be a long walk to Redcliffe.

* * *

"Leave me be, human; I will not entertain you any more than I have the others." The condemned man stood, towering over even Alistair and forcing her to step back— not because she was intimidated, but because she could not see beyond his chest otherwise.

"I understand that you are to be imprisoned until your death," she said slowly, and his upper lip curled in disgust.

"I am in a cage, am I not? Seek answers at your chantry; I am not here to satisfy your curiosity." He started to turn away until he noticed something behind Lorelei, and he shifted in place. "You already have a priest with you, it seems." Leliana stepped forward.

"Oh, no," she protested, "I am not a priest, but a lay sister of the Chantry. Or I was." Lorelei wondered what the furtive glance in her direction— never mind the 'I was'— meant.

"Am I promised some great treasure if I solve your banal riddle?"

"A lay sister lives and works in the Chantry but does not take any vows," Leliana explained, and the Qunari listened, though he didn't betray any great interest.

"So you... dabbled in priesthood, then?"

"Oh no, the lay sisters don't have the same sorts of duties as priests at all."

"So you are not a priest, do none of their duties, and took no vows, but you live among them?" Lorelei bit her cheek to keep from smiling; when he described it thus, the concept seemed particularly absurd.

"Yes!" Leliana was almost triumphant in her agreement, like a teacher finally able to get through to a particularly slow student.

"...You are a house guest of the Chantry?" Alistair made a strangled noise in his throat, and Leliana blinked several times.

"I— I guess, sort of..." she glanced over at Lorelei, and her face brightened. "But that isn't important— we have the key to your cage!" She didn't have time to ask the sister about her use of the word 'we', for the caged giant leaned forward, hands wrapping around the bars, and studied her intently. His eyes were bright violet, and the focussed stare was more than a bit unsettling.

"Really? I did not think that the priestess would part with it."

"She agreed to release you into our custody," she answered, tilting her head towards Alistair. "We are in need of fighters, should you agree to join us."

"To what end?"

"We are sworn to defend the land against the Blight." His eyebrows lifted, and he looked at her with that look of surprised appraisal that she was beginning to grow used to. She wondered if she'd miss it, were everyone to suddenly regain their senses and realise that she was no great mystery.

"Are you a Grey Warden, then?"

"Yes." He studied her again, as if he did not quite believe it. It reminded her a bit of the Tower, and the distainful looks of other apprentices who spread rumours about her secretly being a Tranquil. She felt an inexplicable twinge of homesickness at the memory.

"My people have heard legends about the Grey Wardens. They are said to be warriors with no equal in strength and skill... though I suppose not all legends are true." She felt the corners of her mouth tip up, and he seemed surprised. It was a bit unusual, perhaps, for an implied insult to be met with amusement, but Lorelei had been baited by the best. She found herself oddly in her element, far more at her ease when derided than when praised.

"I suspect that none of them are true," she answered honestly, and he blinked— it seemed like a triumph, somehow, to catch the man off-guard— and the corner of his mouth twitched, just the smallest amount. It was like she had solved a particularly difficult riddle; she felt almost giddy.

"It seems as likely to cause my death as remaining here," he said gravely, "Very well: release me and I will follow you against the Blight. Perhaps in battle I will find my atonement." Lorelei handed the key to Leliana, who was closer, and stepped back as the door swung open, and the giant stepped out. He seemed a bit unsteady, and Lorelei motioned to Alistair. The templar glanced at her as he stepped forward, struggling under the weight as he helped the Qunari steady himself.

"Welcome," she said gently, "I am Lorelei, and this is Alistair." He nodded.

"I am Sten of the Beresad, the Vanguard of the Qunari Peoples."

"And I am Leliana." Lorelei turned to the red-haired woman, "You will need all the help that you can get to defeat the Blight. That's why I am coming with you."

"I am not sure that is wise, sister," she did not want to insult the woman, "We seek aid, this is true, but we seek warriors, not priests," she glanced at Sten before she added, "Or lay-sisters."

"I can fight," she argued stubbornly, "I can do more than fight. I was not always a lay-sister, and though I put those skills aside, I would take them up again."

"I disagree," Sten said suddenly, "Women are priests, artisans, farmers or shopkeepers. None of them have any place in fighting." Leliana frowned, attention diverted from her plea.

"Are there no female warriors among your people?" Lorelei asked, and Sten made a face.

"Of course not. Why would our women wish to be men?"

"I— that is ridiculous. They don't wish to be men," Leliana's voice seemed undecided between surprise and confusion.

"I agree," Sten said evenly, "They shouldn't; that can only lead to frustration." Leliana looked at Alistair, then at Lorelei, as if pleading for some sort of support. Alistair made it clear with his silence that he was leaving the decision to her, and she wondered how he would react if she refused the pretty sister after having gone out of her way to recruit a murderer.

"Cultural differences aside," Lorelei said finally, feeling suddenly tired, "You are right, Leliana. We cannot afford to turn down help when it is offered. However," she held up a hand when both the woman and the Qunari started to speak, likely one to thank her profusely and one to argue, "I will not promise anything other than that you may accompany us, should you insist on it. We are headed to Redcliffe, and then to the Circle Tower, and then— when we return to Ostagar, our Commander will decide how you can help us."

"We do not go directly to battle? Is it wise to delay?" Lorelei looked to Alistair, but he shook his head— she was on her own. She did her best to answer Sten, hoping that the templar wouldn't continue to remove himself from her when they disagreed. She didn't know his age, but she was sure that he was too old for _that_ , at least.

"We were sent out for reinforcements from two armies," she explained. She wasn't sure that the Circle could really be referred to as an _army_ , but she did not want to start another conversation about the nuances of human-versus-Qunari culture. Interesting as it would be to learn about a race that she'd only read about, they didn't have the time. "I doubt that we would meet with approval if we returned with only the two of you." Sten considered her for a moment, as she imagined he might examine a mouse that breathed fire, then nodded.

"That is fair enough," he said finally, "Shall we be off, then? I am eager to be elsewhere." Lorelei gestured for Alistair to lead the way, and followed behind him, a little surprised at how quickly their new companions fell into step on either side of her, Sten just in front and Leliana just behind.

* * *

The bandits seemed to think Alistair the only threat, which was a mistake that cost them as Lorelei sent one man sprawling into his own sword and tripped another by freezing his legs. It kept them from flanking Alistair, but two broke off to attack her instead, and she had to try to parry with her staff as one enthusiastic bandit tried to sever her head from her body and the other came close to cutting her legs out from under her.

The force of the blow against her staff knocked her off of her feet and sent her staff flying away from her, and she crawled backwards until the point of a dagger appeared in the throat of the man advancing on her. He fell to reveal Leliana, her Chantry robe covered in blood, standing behind him. The red-haired woman spun and ducked and almost danced through the bandits, one attack leading smoothly into the next. She hadn't lied when she'd told them that she could fight, and Lorelei was awed— until she sensed movement behind her and turned, just as Sten snapped the neck of a bandit that had slipped behind her. How they could not realise that the giant was a threat, she didn't know, but she was grateful for the mistake as Sten, muttering something about women on the battlefield, picked up the fallen bandit's greatsword and waded into the fray.

It was over quickly after that, and she was relieved to find that Alistair and Leliana had escaped major injury— their cuts and bruises were set right with a few flicks of her fingers. She turned, looking for Sten, and her relief disintegrated.

He was standing over one of the bodies, arm dangling loosely, a deep gash snaking down from just below the shoulder to the elbow. He was holding a greatsword loosely in his hand, and blood ran from his wound and coated his arm, hand, and the sword from hilt to tip before making a dark puddle in the dirt. He swayed, and she shouted for Alistair. The templar was at Sten's side in moments, attempting to steady him and struggling for balance under the Qunari's taller, heavier frame.

"Sit him down," she ordered, hating how her voice cracked, and she knelt beside the giant as he set the sword flat on the ground between them. She studied the wound and found that he had been cut to the bone, and was losing far too much blood. She called up her magic and he flinched, breaking her concentration as the wound shifted and tore where she had begun to mend it.

"Hold still," she said sharply, and at his glare, she raised an eyebrow and added, "Please." Sten grunted, turning his strange eyes away from her as she healed the gash on his arm, one hand resting at the wrist and the other guiding the magic from elbow to shoulder as it knit skin and flesh together. He managed to keep his arm still, though the rest of his body was turned away from her as if he wished that he could flee. When she was satisfied that the wound was closed, she stepped back. He straightened, still eyeing her warily, inspected his arm carefully, and thanked her in a flat tone of voice that suggested that he was not thankful at all.

"Did I miss something?" He looked at her like she was an idiot, and she qualified, "Your arm— was my healing inadequate?"

"It is— as it was," he said slowly, "I am unaccustomed to magic being used so freely."

"That was far from a trivial injury, Sten."

"You do not understand."

"No, I do not." He seemed a bit surprised at her response, and she smiled slightly, "I believe it is to be expected, as I am not of your people. If it helps, I have no intention of harming you."

"I do not fear harm to myself," he said finally, and when she gestured for him to explain, he continued, "An unbound mage is like a wildfire. As prone to consume itself as to devour all that surrounds it."

"You are wrong," she said simply, "I do understand." The disbelief was clear on his face, and she tilted her head. "While I do not know your people's practices regarding mages, being a mage, I have lived in close familiarity with the danger that magic poses, to myself and to others. I have been raised by the Circle, surrounded by experienced mages and priests and templars, all uniquely qualified to teach me about such matters." She shifted, wiping her hands of blood and staring straight into his face, which was much easier to do when he was seated, and she was half-standing. "It is like fire— if uncontrolled, its destructive power is incredible, but it can be controlled and used to great effect. It is a resource, and a valuable one." He blinked, and she smiled, and gestured to his arm. "I was recruited into the Grey Wardens because my magic— which is a part of me— is too valuable to waste."

Something that may have been, unbelievable as it was, approval flickered across his face before he turned away and began painstakingly cleaning his sword. Willing to take whatever victory available to her, Lorelei met Alistair's eyes and they rose together and approached the two cowering dwarves, just emerging from behind their waggon.

"That was a mighty timely arrival, my friends," the older dwarf said, looking around at the scattered bodies of the bandits. "Many thanks for your help."

"You're welcome," Lorelei said, somewhat uncomfortable. The bandits may have meant to rob these two, but they had merely stumbled in to the confrontation. "Are you both all right?"

"We are, thanks to you," he answered, "Bodhan Feddic at your service— Merchant and Entrepreneur— and this is my son, Sandal," he addressed the other dwarf, young enough not to have a beard, "Well, my boy, thank the kind lady."

"Thank you kind lady!" There was something off about Sandal, and Lorelei studied him for a moment, wondering what, exactly, it was. It wasn't just the way that he spoke, or even his childlike manner— there was something else, something that she felt like she should recognise.

"The roads are mighty dangerous these days. Mind if I ask what brings you out here? Perhaps we're going the same way."

"It's probably better if you weren't," Alistair spoke up, "Not that you're not welcome to come along if you really want to, but Grey Wardens tend to run into more trouble than most travellers." At Lorelei's look, he mouthed 'darkspawn', and she nodded, making a note to ask him about that later.

"Grey Wardens? Ah, I— I think that's more excitement than my boy and I can handle," the dwarf admitted, "But before you go on your way, perhaps you'd be interested in some of my merchandise." Lorelei blinked, glancing over at Leliana and Sten, then locking eyes with Alistair. "Your friends look like they could use some more equipment," Bodhan continued, a sly look on his face, "I think that I might have just the thing... and for saving me and my boy, I'm prepared to offer you a fine discount."

Lorelei waved for Sten and Leliana to approach, fumbled for her coin purse, and reconsidered her stance on divine intervention.


	4. Sentiments and Sensibilities

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Discussions, First Impressions, and Redcliffe.

"Lorelei," the woman's hair was impossibly red in the light of the fire, and she wore a thoughtful expression that made the owner of the name she murmured nervous.

"Can I help you with something, Leliana?" She asked, and the woman seemed to come back to herself suddenly, an apologetic smile flitting across her features.

"There is a song," the woman mused, "And a story, about a woman named Lorelei. Do you know it?"

"I— no, I don't know it." She looked away from the dreamy expression that the woman was wearing and into the flames.

"It's an old legend from the Anderfels," Leliana continued, "About a woman who was accused of being an enchantress and luring men to their deaths."

"...Charming," Lorelei found herself saying dryly.

"As the legend tells it, she was, in fact, a faithful maiden betrayed by her lover. Before she could be taken by the soldiers and tried as a witch, she threw herself from a cliff overlooking a great river. It is said that the waters still murmur her name as they crash against the rocks, and that men still find themselves drawn to that cliff by a sweet, soft voice." Lorelei shivered.

"That's—"

"It is romantic, no? Perhaps I will tell you the whole story sometime." Lorelei didn't have the heart to tell the woman what she truly felt about hearing a tragic story about a woman who shared her name. Leliana was wearing a dreamy, faraway look. It struck her as being a bit similar to the King's expression when he spoke of great battles and legends. Perhaps Cailan should have been a bard, and not a King.

Wait.

"Leliana, are you a bard?" The redhead's expression changed abruptly, from dreamy to guarded, and Lorelei cursed herself for being so clumsy. Usually she had some measure of tact, but she'd made this query with even less subtlety than Alistair would have used.

"Perhaps I simply love stories," Leliana said finally, "Orlesians love stories." Lorelei's mouth twitched.

"I thought you said that you were Fereldan?"

"I was born in Orlais, but my mother was Fereldan, and I consider myself to be as well," Leliana explained, edging around the truth like one would around a particularly nasty trap, "But that does not change the fact that I was raised to appreciate many things as Orlesians do, tales and music among them."

"Don't fret, Leliana," Lorelei said softly, "I am not going to hold where you were born against you." There were many who would, but Lorelei, even if she'd been enough of a hypocrite to do so, did not count herself among them. She preferred to form her opinions based on behaviour rather than by an accident of birth. "As for my question— I apologise. I did not mean to ask aloud. It is none of my business."

"It's understandable that you'd be curious," Leliana had brightened visibly, blue eyes sparkling in the firelight, and Lorelei looked away again. "I am certainly curious about you, and your handsome fellow Warden, and Sten— a Qunari, wild and proud, one of the giants at war with Tevinter." She had to hold back a groan— and she managed, just barely. A part of her already regretted accepting the chatty woman along, though she seemed to have a remarkable ability to draw Alistair out of his sulks.

"I am hardly fascinating," she said with a shrug.

"I disagree," Lorelei wondered if someone could _sound_ bright enough to make her eyes water. "You are Fereldan, and yet..." Leliana tilted her head to one side, blue eyes making a quick study of her, "You seem different from the others. Ferelden is known as a nation of wild people, and even the most cultured seem to hold a bit of that spirit, that spark that helped Andraste bring down an entire empire." Lorelei forced her face to relax into a more neutral expression. The woman was a romantic, and seemed to mean well, but the statement— ridiculous as it was— struck hard. Her origins had always been a bit of a sore spot with her, and she'd had it prodded almost constantly before she'd learned how to become all but invisible.

"You see a spark in every Fereldan but me, do you?" She spoke carefully, knowing that it was silly to be angry with Leliana for something that had more to do with Lorelei's own insecurity than the— likely unintentional— implied insult.

"Oh, I didn't mean it like that—"

"Of course not."

"I just meant that— you seem more refined," for someone with a gilded tongue, Leliana was having trouble recovering from her own words. Lorelei sighed.

"Those who are raised to be meek," she said slowly, "Will be meek save for a few remarkable exceptions. I am not such an exception."

"Alistair differs to you." Lorelei waved her hand in dismissal.

"Alistair was raised to be meek," she said simply, "But I believe that he _will_ prove to be one of those exceptions." She hoped he would— she certainly wouldn't. Besides, he was _actually_ Fereldan, so surely this 'spark' or whatever it was would manifest and propel him to greatness. She almost snorted at how ludicrous that thought was.

"But—"

"I am a healer," she continued, "Perhaps one day, a strategist, but my role is a supporting one. I am not a Queen, nor am I a valiant warrior at the head of an army. We all have our places; I have accepted mine."

"Have you?" Leliana's voice had fallen to a whisper, so low that she almost couldn't hear the words, and Lorelei met her eyes, almost glowing blue as the night descended like a shroud around them. "Perhaps your destiny is not so mundane as you believe." Her gaze was steady, and it was the mage who looked away first. Searching inside herself for an answer, Lorelei found instead a dark feeling in the pit of her stomach.

Terror.

"I'll take first watch," she said finally, "You'd best get some rest, Leliana."

* * *

"You slept well."

There was an odd note in Alistair's voice, and Lorelei frowned as she stepped away from the fire, her bowl filled with the mushy gruel flavoured with herbs and fruit. It was Leliana's recipe— Alistair's own cooking had proven abysmal, and Lorelei had little experience with preparing meals. Her request for Leliana to teach her had been a bit hesitant, but had been received with such enthusiasm that some of it had rubbed off and Lorelei was almost eager to learn more. Despite her more _romantic_ tendencies, the redhead was fairly gifted at instruction.

Alistair coughed, and Lorelei looked up as he sat beside her, balancing his own bowl in his hands.

"I can't read minds, Alistair," she said softly, hoping that the former templar would eventually feel comfortable sharing his thoughts with her without prompting. He shot her a sharp look that quickly desolved into a grin.

"It's a good thing, too," he said in an exaggerated whisper, tapping his temple with his spoon and leaving a spot of gruel behind, "I woudn't wish my thoughts on anyone. It's a jungle in there." She smiled back; when he wasn't sulking, his goofy charm was actually rather difficult to resist. He cleared his throat and straightened his shoulders, as if he had some unpleasant news to depart. "I only mention it because— well, the nightmares." She raised her eyebrows in question, and he shifted. "It's part of being a Grey Warden— the archdemon talks to the horde, sort of, and we sense it like they do. It's especially bad when we sleep, especially for those who Join during a Blight."

"I have had some strange dreams," she admitted, "But I've been able to block them out, more or less." He seemed surprised, and she frowned.

"That's... rather quick," he replied, "I mean, it took me weeks."

"Perhaps it is because I'm a mage." Alistair frowned at her between mouthfuls as he processed this possibility. "I'm as familiar with nightmares and strange dreams as anyone, but they've always been—" she gestured with her hands, "It's hard to explain, but I rarely have trouble dealing with nightmares, by changing their course or blocking them outright." She frowned, "These— dreams of angry, blighted dragons are— new, and I admit that they are more difficult to block, but... perhaps my link to the Fade tips the scale in my favour, and eventually I will have some measure of control over even those... visitations." She couldn't stop the small shudder that travelled up her spine.

"You can control your dreams? I've never heard of anything like that," he admitted, looking far too awed for something that she'd always thought was a particularly mediocre ability, "I always assumed that mages had the same dreams as anyone. Perhaps that was— stupid of me." Lorelei was already shaking her head; she'd made the same assumption when she'd just figured that everyone experienced dreams as she did, after all.

"It's not stupid," she said slowly, "You might even be right. I've never really— spoken to anyone about my dreams, or my ability to— shift things in them. It just never occurred to me that it wasn't the same for everyone." She looked down at her gruel, which was all but cold already, and forced herself to focus on eating so that they could be on their way. The thought that she could be unique, extraordinary in any way, unnerved her greatly, and the harder she tried not to think about it, the more the thought pulled at her, reminded her of the times when she'd seen others in her dreams— and how, if she'd ever interacted with the dream-versions of her fellow apprentices, their real-world counterparts had treated her oddly and whispered about her in the halls.

She snorted— the only time she'd ever avoided being treated 'oddly' by the other apprentices was when they'd ignored her. She was being ridiculous and creating connections where there were none.

"They're real, you know," Alistair said finally, and she almost jumped as his voice intruded into her reverie.

"Huh?"

"At least, the dreams of the archdemon. Some of the older Wardens say that they can understand it, sometimes— I sure can't, but there it is." He shuddered. "Well, I guess you didn't need to talk about it, but I just thought— it was scary for me, at first, so I thought I'd mention it. Be reassuring, or something." He stood awkwardly, and she looked up at him, craning her head back so that he could see her smile.

"I appreciate the kindness, Alistair," she said, and he smiled back, grin taking over his face.

"Anytime."

"Oh, and Alistair?" He frowned, and she gestured to his temple, where the spot of gruel had hardened in place. "There's gruel on your face," she frowned, "And I think in your hair, a bit, just—" At the mention of his hair, the former templar made a very undignified sound, approaching a squeak, and rushed off, presumably to wash. Lorelei stared after him for a few moments before she shook her head, rose, and began to clean up camp.

* * *

"Hold a moment, Sten," the giant obliged, his shoulders rising and then falling as he sighed in annoyance.

"Is this delay needful?" Lorelei ignored his prickly attitude as best she could, searching him for signs of weakness, strain or injury.

"Are you sure that you're alright? If Leliana is to be believed, you were in that cage for weeks." She purposely avoided glancing ahead at the woman in question, but she hoped that she wouldn't take the statement as a serious comment on her trustworthiness.

"You are concerned for my well-being," Sten's voice rumbled in his chest, and his mouth widened in what might have been a slight smile. Instead of reassuring, Lorelei found the expression mildly unsettling. "There is no need— I am fit to fight."

"I—" she paused, swallowed, then started again, "You will tell me if you require anything, right?"

"As you wish," he spoke with the manner of one humouring an idiot, "I require nothing at this moment. If that is all, shall we move on?"

"Of course."

Sten slowly moved his head from side to side, his eyes never leaving hers, then shrugged, huffed lightly, and returned to his brisk pace, long strides catching him up to Alistair in moments— at which point, he fell back again, shooting a telling look in her direction. Shaking her own head, Lorelei followed, jogging to catch up to the group.

"So... let me get this straight," Alistair was saying, "You were a cloistered sister?" It became clear that Sten had fallen back to watch the unbound mage, escape the banter, or both. Lorelei was betting on both.

"You must have been a brother before you became a templar, no?" She almost winced, remembering how bitter Alistair had been each time he'd mentioned his Chantry background. He hadn't told her the story, but she had become moderately skilled at noticing when someone had a past that they did not wish to discuss. To her immense relief, Alistair was in a good mood, and the worst that Leliana's question received in response was a drawn-out sigh.

"I never actually became a templar," he explained, in the tone of someone who has gone over the same thing many, many times, "I was recruited into the Grey Wardens before I took my final vows."

"Do you ever regret leaving the Chantry?"

"No, never. Do you?" Leliana sighed, too, but it was more of a reverent exhale than a sigh, and it answered the question better than her words did.

"Yes. You may not believe it, but I found peace there. The kind of peace I've never known."

"It used to get so quiet at the monastery that I would start screaming until one of the brothers came running. I would tell them that I was just checking. You never know, right?" Lorelei coughed, and quickly hid her smile behind her hand when Leliana glanced her way.

"I... no," Leliana answered, looking confused and a little affronted, "I never did anything like that. I enjoyed the quiet."

"Suit yourself," Alistair rolled his shoulders and shrugged, then glanced back at Lorelei, grinning, and added, "The looks on their faces were always _priceless_."

* * *

"So Lorelei," Alistair tossed the words carelessly over his shoulder, much like he would the contents of his pack once they'd set up camp for the night, "You've never said anything about your childhood."

"No, I haven't," Lorelei agreed, shading her eyes with her hand as she studied the landscape and discreetly checked to make sure that Sten and Leliana— Leliana, mostly— were out of hearing range. It wasn't really necessary, as that strange _sense_ that she'd noticed ever since Ostagar told her that they were still several yards ahead of her and Alistair, but she did not quite trust this new feeling. She knew from experience that it was better to be sure than to be surprised. "There's really nothing to say."

"I don't believe it," he said brightly, and she suppressed a groan as he warmed to the subject, "Where were you born? What were your parents like? Come on, surely there's something you can tell me." She was surprised to find herself blinking back tears, and not because of the bright light of day. She should have expected the question, really, with Alistair and Leliana both sharing stories from their early years, but she should be in control of the emotional reaction by now.

"I was born in Montsimmard, at the Orlesian Circle of Magi," she said finally, in the flattest tone of voice that she could manage, "Shortly after that I was sent to Jader, to be raised by the Chantry. When my magic manifested, I was sent to the Ferelden Circle of Magi to avoid... complications." Alistair wore a rather endearing expression of confusion, and she wasn't sure if she wanted to laugh or cry or give him a hug. Or ask for one herself. "My father was a mage, an apprentice of the Orlesian Circle."

"...Was a mage?"

"He's still a part of the Circle," she explained, "He's just... well, he was made Tranquil, and while they're often called 'Tranquil Mages', it's a bit of a misnomer since the Chantry actually considers them to be..." She stopped herself, realising that she was babbling, and worse— beginning to affect an accent that it had taken her years to lose.

"I... I had no idea." Alistair was nothing if not genuine, so if he looked wretched, chances were he felt that way. Lorelei summoned up a smile, though she imagined that it was unconvincing.

"Of course you didn't," she said with a shrug, "I never said."

"And I was _raised by dogs_!" He pointed out helpfully, and this time her smile was genuine.

"Now that you've asked, you must be so disappointed not to have found something suitable for playful gossip." She was trying to be lighthearted, but it was not her strong suit— no, her strong suit was quiet, meek, and where possible, completely invisible.

"Oh, we'll find the juicy bits somewhere else, don't worry," Alistair reassured her, and she rolled her eyes. "Wait— does that mean that you're Orlesian?" Even though there was no venom in the word, Lorelei winced. "I— did I say something wrong? I said something wrong, didn't I? Of course you did, Alistair, you always say something—"

"Alistair, it's fine," she said quickly, wanting to stop him before he managed to convince himself that he was responsible for the Blight itself, "It's just— I was very young when I came to Ferelden, and even then, it took a long time for me to learn to speak without an accent, and even longer for people to forget my— origins, even in the Tower." Lorelei congratulated herself on the massive understatement, and followed it with another, "I think it is hard enough for people to accept me as a mage, let alone as an Orlesian."

"I think I understand," he said finally, and oddly enough, something about the way he said it convinced her that he might. They continued their march to Redcliffe, falling into a silence that was rather more comfortable than she expected.

* * *

As they neared Redcliffe, Alistair's lighthearted banter lessened, and when the village came into view, the shadow of the castle behind it, he fell silent. Lorelei almost collided with him when he stopped abruptly, and Lorelei frowned at his half-hearted apology.

"Wait." He ran his hand through his hair, a gesture that she knew meant that he was nervous, "Before we go into Redcliffe, there's something that I probably should tell you." Lorelei twisted her staff, pushing it into the ground until it stayed in place, and crossed her arms over her chest. "I probably should have told you before, actually, but—"

"Is this about the 'personal connection' to Redcliffe that Duncan mentioned?" She asked softly, and Alistair nodded, his nose and the tips of his ears reddening.

"Well, ah— how do I put this..." Alistair ran his hand through his hair again, and Lorelei wondered if he kept it short to keep himself from pulling it out in clumps whenever he got nervous. "I'm a bastard," he said finally, and Lorelei tilted her head at him and waited for him to continue. "And before you make any smart remarks, I mean _the fatherless kind_. My mother was a serving girl at the castle, and—"

"Please tell me," Lorelei said softly, a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach, "Please tell me that the Arl of Redcliffe is not your father."

"He isn't," Lorelei was rather relieved to hear it, even if Alistair didn't look all that relieved, having said it, "Though he did raise me— sort of. You see, the reason he did that was because of who my father was—" he straightened, not out of pride, but out of a need to get the words out before he lost his nerve, "My father was King Maric." It felt like the ground had disappeared beneath her, and she reached out and grabbed her staff with both hands, sagging slightly as she leaned on it.

"Maker's blood," Lorelei said, when she was finally able to speak, "I wasn't expecting that."

"Well, there it is," Alistair shifted uncomfortably, "Now you know, so when it comes up, you don't have to be completely shocked."

"Is it really that likely to come up?" Lorelei asked finally, and Alistair shrugged again.

"I— I'm not really sure, but..." Alistair made a circular motion in the dirt with his boot, "We'll inevitably be dealing with the Arlessa to some extent, and she— really doesn't like me. My father wasn't Arl Eamon, but of course, this wasn't exactly advertised, and there were rumours..." His voice had turned distinctly bitter, and Lorelei suspected the truth before he finally said it. "She couldn't stand the rumours and insisted that I be sent to the Chantry. It was just as well, really— by then, she'd already made certain that the castle was no longer a home to me, but—" He shrugged helplessly.

"There are many tales," Leliana said in her bright voice, and Lorelei realised that this was going to be an attempt to cheer Alistair up— one that would probably fail, "Many _great_ tales of lost kings who return to their lands to reign in glory..."

"I'm not lost," Alistair said sharply, making a face, "Nor, for that matter, a king. I can't return to Ferelden— I've never left it!— and there is nothing glorious about me."

"But you are a prince—"

"I am the son of a star-struck maid and an indiscreet man who just happened to be King. Look, even if Cailan weren't the King— which he is, by the way, right down to the shiny golden armour— I couldn't be king, not ever." Leliana looked a bit hurt, and Alistair sighed, softening his voice and glancing in Lorelei's direction, as if asking for help, "Some days I have trouble figuring out which boot goes on which foot."

"Complete fools are made leaders of kingdoms all the time, and you're not a complete fool," Leliana pointed out, and Lorelei decided that now would be a good time to intervene.

"Leliana," she said slowly, in her most diplomatic tone of voice, "There is no point to this discussion. As long as King Cailan rules, any talk of anyone else being King could be considered treason." Leliana's fingers flew to her lips, and Lorelei smiled grimly, glad that the woman's romantic fancy didn't quite reach the level of idiocy that it could have. "Besides, Alistair is a Grey Warden, and they're not supposed to be kings even when they're not unacknowledged bastards." She tried to soften her voice when she said it, but Alistair flinched all the same. She sighed.

"Alistair," she said slowly, and she noticed that his cheeks were now as red as his nose and ears. He raised his eyes to hers— not a monumental effort, since he was significantly taller than she— and she continued, in the calm, measured voice that she used when dealing with extremely young apprentices on particularly difficult nights in the dorms. "Thank you for telling me. I'd hate to be completely blindsided by any problems with the Arlessa, where it is avoidable. If it helps— though I can see why you might not believe me when I make this claim— I won't hold your heritage against you."

"Really? So this doesn't change anything for you?" The mix of hope and skeptism in his voice said more about his upbringing than any words could have, "Even Duncan kept me out of the battle." As had she, effectively, though for completely different reasons.

"It changes some things," she answered with a shrug, "But mostly by explaining them." He frowned, almost to the point of a scowl, and she smiled slightly, "It's easier to understand why you didn't really want to come here, for one thing."

"I— I guess it would, wouldn't it? I'm sorry, I should have known that you'd understand." Lorelei prayed that he wouldn't expand upon the statement, especially with the way Leliana was glancing their way. When he said nothing else, she breathed a sigh of relief and recited a quick, but heartfelt, thanks to the Maker in her head.

He glanced toward the town, a wistful expression on his face— one that Lorelei found she understood. No matter the reason for leaving, home was still home. "Anyway, enough of this. Let's go."

His steps were heavy as he lead the way toward the town, and she followed, noticing that Leliana drifted behind them, lost in thought, and Sten muttered something about constant, needless delays.

Oddly enough, that last bit brought a faint smile to her lips. She hoped that she could depend on Sten to be consistent, because he was beginning to feel almost like a patch of stillness in the middle of the storm that was beginning to thicken and spin around her— and perhaps drag her away to an unpleasant end.

Her smile faded quickly at the direction of her thoughts.

* * *

"Alistair," Leliana wrinkled her pretty nose as she drew out Alistair's name dramatically, "This smell—"

"Redcliffe always smells of fish," there was an odd note in his voice as he answered, "But this—"

"It stinks of salt, rotten fish and burnt flesh," Sten interrupted sharply, and Leliana shut her mouth with a soft click of her teeth, "Do you always draw out your observations so? I am weary of your constant chatter."

"Don't you ever— you know, talk? Make polite conversation just to put people at ease?" Alistair snapped back, and Lorelei watched his face, seeing more signs of worry than anger, the realisation that something was very wrong at Redcliffe reaching them all at various speeds.

"You mean that I should remark upon the weather before I cut off a man's head?" Lorelei covered her mouth with both hands, and then as they grew close to the village, chose to cover her nose. Sten was right— it smelled of death. At least some of the smoke rising up ahead of them was part of a funeral pyre... or several.

"I... nevermind," Alistair said, distracted by a runner coming to meet them.

"Thank the Maker, help at last—" the man began, wild hope draining away from his face as he took in the size of their party, "Is this is? Are you— all they sent?"

"Sent?" Alistair asked, clearly confused, and the man's eyes widened in disbelief. "What's happened?"

"You don't _know_? Doesn't anyone know?" His eyes were a bit wild, and he looked from Alistair to Leliana to Sten to Lorelei, who found herself stepping forward, summoning up her most calming voice. She wasn't sure if she was more surprised at her success or at how much she sounded like the priests who had soothed her as a child.

"Alistair and I are Grey Wardens," she said slowly, "We've been sent from Ostagar to seek reinforcements, and to deliver messages to the Arl."

"Best of luck with that," his voice was brittle, threatening to break under the sarcasm, "He may be dead for all we know. We've not seen anyone from the castle in weeks, and the village is under attack—" Lorelei took another step forward, and managed to brush her fingertips against his arm before he drew back sharply, "I'll take you to Bann Teagan. He'll explain everything, and perhaps— perhaps you can help us, after all."

Lorelei glanced at Alistair, and after a brief hesitation, he shook his head and gestured for her to take the lead. She nodded to the man, trying to smile reassuringly: it was a tricky thing, sometimes, smiling— if you were particularly unlucky, it caused a great deal of offense.

"Lead on," she said softly, each word feeling heavy as lead: she had a feeling that Arl Eamon would not be providing them with reinforcements any time soon.

As they were lead through the devastated village toward its chantry— it was modest as far as chantries went, but still the largest and most well-built object in the village— her hopes fell so far that she wondered if she'd have to seek the Dwarves to find them.

Then, of course, she wondered if there had ever been any Dwarves beneath them, or if they had ever dared tunnel so close to Lake Calenhad.

As Alistair brushed past her to greet Bann Teagan, and was greeted in turn, she reminded herself that she no longer had a life where she could allow herself to get lost in her thoughts, and turned her attention to the Bann, and his description of the ills befalling Redcliffe Village.

"Did you just say _walking corpses_?"

"Yes," the Bann answered cautiously, shooting a glance at Alistair, "Sometimes they're even— recognisable." Lorelei shuddered right along with him. "It's like nothing I've ever heard of." She blinked in surprise, and Teagan's eyes narrowed. "But that is not true for you, is it?"

"The Circle of Magi maintains an extensive library," she explained slowly, "With a rather large section dedicated to demons."

"You think a demon is responsible?" Lorelei held up her hands at Teagan's question, noting how Alistair leaned forward with interest. For someone trained to hate and distrust magic, he had a particular interest in it. What struck her about it wasn't that it didn't make sense, but that it reminded her of how rare it was in an Order that claimed to protect mages as well as hunt them. Perhaps the Chantry found that ignorance was more conducive to their goals than knowledge, and the thought was so disturbing that she stumbled, and had to pause before she was able to refocus on her explanation.

"Demons have been known to possess corpses, but on this scale... it would have to be a higher level demon, like Desire or Pride." Alistair alone lacked a confused expression, so she elaborated. "Spirits of the Fade are thought to borrow their identity, in some fashion, from the dreamers that visit their realm. Those known as demons draw power from the negative aspects of dreamers— rage, hunger, sloth, desire and pride. The more complex the emotion, the more intelligent— and more powerful— the demon." Lorelei paused, realising another complication. "Their influence is usually limited to the Fade, without some method of crossing the Veil." She frowned, turning in a full circle before meeting Teagan's eyes again, "But the Veil doesn't simply tear without warning, unless... Bann Teagan, is there a mage at the castle?"

"Not that I know of," he answered, "Though I haven't visited my brother in quite some time."

"It is good that you've been burning the bodies, but—" Lorelei winced at the indelicacy of what she was about to say, "Do you have some way to dispose of the ashes?"

"Dispose of the— Maker, what do you mean?" Teagan's eyes were wide, and a quick glance around told Lorelei that they'd gathered an audience, including the Revered Mother, judging from her robes. She suddenly found herself conscious of every speck of mud on her own grey robes and every hair pulled loose from her braid. She was sure that someone would have something to say about the shabby, unkept waif who dared represent both the Circle of Magi and the Order of the Grey, and if they did, she had nothing with which to counter. Perhaps she would try one of Daylen's cheeky shrugs.

"I mean that a Shade— that's a demon, usually Sloth, that possesses the ashes of the dead— can be every bit as devastating as a walking corpse," she said carefully, folding her arms over her chest to keep herself from fidgeting.

"Alistair—"

"She's the one who knows about demons," the affable ex-templar answered quickly, looking a bit green around the edges.

"I don't know overly much about defeating them, I'm afraid," she admitted, watching faces fall around her and trying to tell herself that she was going to have to get used to people being disappointed in her, now that she was— Maker help her— in the habit of being the object of expectations. She glanced up at the bright shaft of light coming in through one of the chantry's high windows, and then at Alistair, then back at Teagan.

"Will you help us?"

She heard Alistair straighten, the metal of his armour scraping together, and glanced up and back over her shoulder at a scowling Sten.

"This is a waste of time," the Qunari said matter-of-factly, "You came here for reinforcements against the Blight, and there are clearly none to be had. We should move on."

"Have you no heart?" Leliana's tone alone made her opinion clear.

"This— heart— that you describe," Sten rolled the word around in his mouth, looking distinctly confused, "This is what resides in the chest and moves blood through the body, yes? I possess one as you do. I do not understand what this has to do with anything." Leliana blinked, but was not dissuaded.

"I mean, have you no feelings? You would leave these people to be slaughtered?"

"You would save one village while the whole land is consumed by the darkspawn? Is it not more sensible to sacrifice the few for the many, rather than the reverse?"

"Illuminating as your argument is," Teagan interjected just before Lorelei could think of the right words to do so herself, "It does not answer my question. Forgive my rudeness, but these are desperate times." The last part was directed mostly at Lorelei, before he turned his attention on Alistair. "I know that I have no right to ask this of you, Alistair, but will you help us?" Alistair fidgeted, and when he glanced at Lorelei, he had a look like one of those dogs she'd seen at Ostagar, begging for table scraps.

"Well, I... you see, it's not just up to me," he said weakly, and she blinked. It was clear how much he wanted to help the village, and he was still hesitant to take charge? Lorelei took a deep breath, making a note to find out how much of Alistair's hesitation was because of the Chantry, and how much was due to his early life at Redcliffe. Even the meekest of Templars was trained to act when a mage or a demon— in this case, probably both— was involved.

"We will help," she said, knowing that despite Sten's objections, there really was no other decision that they she could live with making. She glanced at Alistair and flinched away from the expression of gratitude that he was wearing. It was akin to staring at the sun, only it hurt her heart, rather than her eyes. She held up a hand before Sten could voice his obvious displeasure. "Bann Teagan, tell us your plan."

* * *

"It is a foolish plan."

Lorelei was starting to think herself getting rather good at reading Sten's moods. At this moment, he was very annoyed, and with her. The fact that this seemed to be the rule, rather than the exception, was easily discarded.

"Do you mean the decision to help the village, or the plan to defend it?" She tried to keep her voice light, and blinked at Sten's expression.

"I have already voiced my opinion on that matter," he said simply, shifting in position, "If you do not want my input, I will hold my tongue." Lorelei bit the inside of her cheek to keep her amusement in check. It was inappropriate, yes, but she could not resist the thought that if _Sten_ threatened silence, he meant it.

"I value your insight, Sten," she answered slowly, "Even when you do not agree with me. Maybe even especially then." He was looking at her _like that_ again, and she shrugged her staff off her back so that she could lean on it. "I have read a great deal of books, but... I am not a warrior, or a general. There is much that I should know, and do not."

"You are not as callow as I thought," he said suddenly, and she blinked, then craned her head up and to the side to look at him, "That is... _unexpected_."

"I—"

"It is a word in your tongue," he added helpfully, "It means 'without feathers', as a newly hatched bird." She couldn't help it— the corners of her mouth lifted.

"I am aware of the word's meaning, Sten— as I said, I have read a great deal of books."

"Then I am unclear on the reason for your confusion." He towered over her, glowering, and she wondered at her own lack of fear. She _should be afraid_ of Sten. He was massive and strange and intimidating and without apology— and yet, she felt more comfortable with him than with Leliana and her wild flights of fancy and Alistair with his nervous humour and raw, needy innocence.

"I am not accustomed to compliments," she said, looking away. Actually, she was beginning to get used to the _you're not as stupid as I thought_ variety, but she had a feeling that coming from Sten, it was high praise indeed, and she wasn't used to _that_.

"Like I said: you are not as callow as I thought."

"What was it you were saying— about Bann Teagan's plan?" He nodded, looking oddly satisfied, then leaned toward her, just a little, as he began to explain.

"To wait for nightfall and attempt to endure the siege— it leaves too much to chance, and depends on numbers that we do not have. We should attack— retake the castle and destroy the evil within. It is still foolish, but it is significantly more likely to succeed— especially if it is as you say, with one creature responsible." He was about as animated as she'd ever seen him, face set in determined lines. "You know that I speak truth, and yet you let this nobleman—" She raised a hand, and he fell silent as she rubbed her temples.

Sten was right. They'd agreed to help only to be sent on various minor errands while the Arl's younger brother planned a battle for which he didn't have the resources to fight properly. There was something else, too— when she'd asked if there was a way into the castle, his gaze had slid away from her as he mentioned another small thing that needed doing. Even now, Alistair and Leliana were attempting to recruit a dwarf to fight with the militia. This Bann Teagan was charming, but he was bad a liar as Jowan— poor, doomed Jowan. Lorelei flinched so violently that she almost lost her footing. Somehow she doubted that Sten's newly expressed, _sort-of respect_ for her would survive her tumbling head over heels down the hill and into the creek.

"I will speak to Bann Teagan again," she said softly, and turned, leaving him staring after her as she picked her way down the hill, then up the dirt path into the chantry.

* * *

"Bann Teagan," she tried to keep her voice even as she approached, noting how the space directly around her target cleared to give them at least the appearance of privacy.

"Warden, is there something that you needed?" Lorelei swallowed a sigh; Teagan had a quick smile and a natural kind of charm that made him inconveniently _likable_ , at least for someone that she was about to accuse of lying.

"You do have a way into the castle, don't you?" Teagan flinched, confirming her suspicion neatly. "Bann Teagan, it is not my plan to abandon the village to the undead simply to get to the Arl." She paused to study him, knowing all the ways that that she had no right to his trust— commoner, Warden, mage, and though he didn't yet know it, _Orlesian_ — but requiring it all the same.

"And yet you wish to enter the castle instead of defending the village." There was no accusation in his tone to match his words, only weariness and a sort of resignation.

"Not instead, my Lord. The force that is attacking your people is coming from within the castle. Even with our help— all four of us— you do not have the resources to defend the people from another night of this," she tried to make her voice sound matter-of-fact, like Sten's, but instead it came out forced and brittle and just a little bit pleading. It was a good thing that she'd sent Leliana on any of the errands that involved convincing people to help the militia— she'd've been pants at it. She winced at her own ineptitude, but continued, "We have done what we can to prepare the militia, but our best bet is to deal with the threat before it attacks the village."

"And if you were to fail?"

"If we fail, the result will be the same as if we failed out here." She gestured, sweeping her arms wide to indicate the village. "Only with less waiting." She crossed her arms over her chest, hoping that a well-thought out, reasoned argument would work on Teagan. If he required charm to convince, she'd never get through to him.

"There is something else, isn't there?" Teagan peered at her closely, and she blinked, then nodded.

"I'm not really sure, but— well, I read it in a book, as you might have guessed," she managed a quick smile, which Teagan returned, "It was a story about a mage that was possessed by a demon, a demon that took full control most easily when he slept. If this situation is similar, than daylight is more than a reprieve for the village. It is a valuable opportunity to find the mage responsible and put an end to this whole affair."

"You'll have to kill the mage," Teagan sounded almost sad, and Lorelei found herself liking him all the more for it.

"I really don't know," Lorelei admitted, "But there is precious little daylight left, and waiting for nightfall— Bann Teagan, you are only buying time."

"And I am paying for it with these people's lives," his voice was heavy with guilt, and his eyes slid away from hers, "And perhaps my own." She didn't think that she had to mention that there were also the people in the castle to consider— if they still lived. _That_ was a heavy weight in the air around them— very present, if unsaid.

It was a long moment before he looked at her again, and she found that getting her way didn't feel as good as people had lead her to believe it would. Bann Teagan was tired, and sad, and worried and horribly guilt-ridden, and she _liked_ him.

"Very well," he said finally, twisting a heavy signet ring around his finger before he removed it and placed it in her hand, "There is a secret passage, from inside the mill to inside the castle..."


	5. The Exorcism of Connor Guerrin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lorelei enters the Castle Redcliffe and finds a captive mage, a desperate noblewoman and a possessed child.

"So the bann just— gave you the ring and told you about the tunnel? Just like that?" Alistair stepped back as the door opened, and they were all blasted with the smell of a space left closed for a considerable amount of time. Sten was, predictably, not terribly impressed.

"Either this is a trap, or the defenders of this castle are idiots. I suspect both." Lorelei held up her hands to calm Alistair as he turned, a sharp remark on his lips. He hesitated, then closed his mouth, pressing his lips together in obvious annoyance. Lorelei closed her fingers around the signet ring that the templar—Warden dropped into her palm, and turned to the giant.

"Most of the defenders of this castle are dead, Sten," she said gently, and he harrumphed.

"It is no wonder." Sten crossed his arms over his chest, but said no more.

"Sten," he straightened, scowl deepening as if he expected a scolding, but Lorelei simply held out her hand and gestured for him to do the same. When he did, she dropped the shiny gold trinket into his very large palm. "I would like you to return to Bann Teagan and stand with the guards by the castle gates. When we reach the courtyard, we will open them from the inside— if things go badly, we may need the support."

"You are leaving me behind," it was oddly spoken, like a statement meant to be a question.

"The ceiling is low, and I doubt that there is enough room for you to swing your greatsword," she explained, gesturing to the cramped tunnel. "I know that I can depend on you to be there when we open the gates." She could hear armour grinding together and see shadows moving at the edge of her vision as Alistair bristled. "And it is a good thing if the townspeople see some indication that we have not abandoned them completely. I also believe that your size, stature, and strangeness will be enough to keep soldiers— including that dwarf— at your side, if only because of curiosity."

"It is sound enough reason," he admitted grudgingly as he slipped the signet ring onto his smallest finger. It did not go past the first joint. "I will return to the nobleman his bauble and wait at the gates." His movements were stiff as he backed out of the windmill. At the last moment, he paused, as if about to say something, then shook his head, turned, and ducked under the door.

When she turned her attention toward the entrance— and Alistair— her fellow Warden was staring after the giant, an odd look on his face.

"I think he's actually worried about us," Alistair said softly, "Well, you, mostly. I think." He made a face, "It's hard to even imagine. He's so..."

"I know," Leliana's voice took on that dreamy quality that Lorelei hated, and she bit down on her lip. "He's so... _Qunari_! All the stories speak as if they were a hurricane or an earthquake rather than people. They conquered nearly all of the north. Tevinter, Rivain, Antiva... Much of the land was laid waste. In the northern kingdoms, they say the Qunari are implacable. Relentless. More like a landslide than an invasion. It took three Exalted Marches to drive them back to the sea." That was enough.

"Sadly," Lorelei said, though she was not really sad at all, "We do not have time to tell stories or muse about Sten's feelings." Alistair's shoulders hunched a bit in shame, and she pretended not to notice.

"You're right," he admitted, and she felt almost guilty— almost, "We need to get moving if we want to clear the castle before nightfall."

And with that, the illegitimate son of King Maric turned and lead them into the dark, damp tunnel that ran under the edge of the lake and into the basement of Castle Redcliffe.

* * *

"No! Get away from me!" The voice was weak, as well as oddly familiar, and Lorelei gestured to Alistair, who nodded in agreement before shifting his position, protecting her with his shield as she cast a series of ice spells down the narrow corridor, followed by mage-lights. She used the light to locate the torches on the walls and lit them while Alistair and Leliana did their utmost to shatter the walking corpses before they thawed.

"Hello?" The desperate edge to the voice made it come out as a whine, and Lorelei winced, still trying to place it. "Who— who is there?" She approached the cell carefully, one hand resting on her glowing staff and one hand raised and ready to sketch out a paralysis glyph as a figure approached the bars. She fought the urge to shield herself from the smell— not the smell of rotting flesh and death, but the smell of captivity and neglect— and focussed on the inside of the cell, and its lone occupant.

He was shockingly thin— his cheeks were hollow and the bones showed through in his arms where the sleeves of his tattered clothes ended, and the manacles that bound his hands in front of him hung far below the wrists, drawing her attention to his fingers, which were twisted and gnarled, appearing to have been broken and left to heal crooked. His eyes looked to have sunken into his face, which wore a tortured grimace, starkly pale between greasy curtains of hair.

She did not realise who he was until he spoke again, clearly having recognised her. "What are _you_ doing here?" Her staff clattered to the ground, and she was barely aware of Alistair saying her name and asking who this man was, how she knew him, and if she was all right. The prisoner simply stood there, mouth hanging open, slumped forward with his hands— manacles and all— dangling useless in front of him. She had never seen a sorrier sight, and it was a while before she could regain the power of speech.

"Hello, Jowan."

It was another several minutes before she could think of anything else to say.

* * *

"Connor, a mage? I... can't believe it," Alistair was clearly surprised by the development, but Lorelei knew his expressions well enough to know that he was closer to believing Jowan's story than his words implied.

"When the Arl fell ill, the Arlessa had me arrested," Lorelei's former fellow apprentice sat down on the cot in his cell, clearly exhausted just from standing, "And then, a few days later, she came back and told me to 'stop my evil' or something." His lips twisted into a bitter grimace, "I had no idea what she meant. I thought that she was talking about the Arl's sickness, until she mentioned walking dead. She— had me tortured. There was nothing I could say to..." He broke off with a strangled noise that she suspected was an attempt to swallow a sob.

"Do you know how the Arl fell ill?" Jowan shook his head, then closed his eyes in an expression of pain.

"I— have no idea," his voice had fallen nearly to a whisper, and her healer's training told her that he was more than just tired. "He started spending more and more time in his chambers, and then... then we stopped seeing him at all. I mean, Connor and I." When his eyes opened again, they were shiny, and Lorelei had the impression of regret. "Connor must have— done something, or looked in one of my books after I was arrested. I should have locked them away, but I thought that I'd always be there to watch, to make sure that he didn't get in to any of the more advanced stuff. I've messed everything up again. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry..."

"Jowan." Her voice was sharper than she wanted it to be, and Jowan flinched as if he'd been struck, and he looked away from her, at his ruined hands. "Jowan," she tried again, gentler, and he looked up with some hesitation. "I'm not going to say that you didn't make mistakes, but I can't exactly lecture you, either, not when you're—" she gestured to the cell, and Jowan flinched again, "You did not deserve to be tortured and left in a cell to rot."

"Oh, really? I'm sure that Greagoir would disagree, and Irving with him. I'm an evil apostate. I'm sure it's easy to believe that I'd murder the Arl, and set demons upon his family." His voice was deeply bitter, and Lorelei closed her eyes and took a slow, deep breath, composing a response that she discarded as soon as she opened her eyes.

"Leliana, open the door."

"Lorelei, are you sure—" When she turned to Alistair, he stumbled over his words before recovering, "Are you sure that it's safe? He could be possessed— or a blood mage."

The laughter was a bit of a shock to all of them. It was pained and bitter and more than a little hysterical, and as soon as she recovered, Lorelei gestured for Leliana to open the cell door with a renewed urgency. She reached Jowan just as he seemed to return to himself, doubled over and wheezing from the exertion and wiping at the wet tears streaking his grimy face with his mangled fingers. As she closed the distance between them, more of the damage done to Jowan's body became apparent. Jowan had always been considered weak, but— it was a wonder that he was even alive, considering the abuse that he had suffered. She wondered if there was any part of him that had been left unbruised, or any bone that hadn't been broken and left to set improperly, and as she wondered, a dark anger began to build within her.

"Can you unlock the manacles?" Lorelei lifted Jowan's hands so that Leliana could see, and held them steady as the former lay-sister worked on the rusted restraints. When they fell free, they clattered to the dirt floor and Jowan flinched with his whole body, then whimpered as her grip tightened around his fingers. "Jowan." He seemed to relax a fraction when she said his name, her voice about half the volume of a whisper, so she said it again, and then again— until his breathing calmed and she was able to reach for her magic, and the simple spell that would allow her to see the full extent of the damage to his body.

When the spell was complete, and she saw all that had happened to Jowan, she was momentarily robbed of all words. For first time, she really understood what rage was like.

* * *

"Alistair, I need you to smite me," she said softly, and he blinked at her, absolutely adorable in his confusion.

"But—"

"Now, Alistair," her voice sounded far sharper than she liked it, and it was all she could do not to collapse in a fit of tears. " _Please_." It came out as a whine, and with obvious reluctance, he nodded and shifted, then flung his arms wide and sent her tumbling backwards into a pile of soggy, rotting corpses.

It was like being hit with the broad side of a barn, and for a few moments, she could not remember where she was and why it smelled _so bad_ , then Alistair was helping her up, apologising the whole time as if she hadn't begged him to smite her. Her mana was slowly bleeding back into her, the ever-present touch of the Fade returning as she struggled to regain her feet, and then to keep them. She leaned heavily on Alistair, breathing with deliberate slowness until she felt more like herself again.

"Are you all right?"

"No," she said, offering Alistair a wry smile as she tentatively stepped away from him, a bit unsure of whether or not she could stand. She glanced up at him, and, noticing his look of concern and confusion, explained, "I have never been so angry in my entire life, and I am afraid that powerful emotions can have disastrous consequences for a mage." He nodded, then, no doubt remembering some of his templar training. "I expect that I will recover." She paused. "Thank you."

"I'd prefer not to have to do that often," he said sheepishly, and she smiled weakly at him. Her magic was returning— faster than she would have expected— and she had to clamp down on her emotions lest she lose control again. They had more castle to claim, and with the three of them, her magic was pivotal to every skirmish.

"I agree." She returned to the cell, where Leliana was speaking to Jowan in hushed, sympathetic tones. The red-haired woman looked up as they entered, and Lorelei knew that the compassion in the lines on Leliana's face were genuine, and mirrored her own feelings. "Jowan, can you walk?" He hesitated, then nodded. "I wish I could just send you back to town with Leliana, but you're likely to attract too much attention."

"You should just leave me. I'll just get in the way, and I deserve this." It was the resignation in his voice that caught her, and before she realised what she was doing, she had closed the distance between them and forced his eyes to hers, a palm on either side of his face.

"I am _not_ leaving you here," she hissed, then released him abruptly, stepping back with the shock of what she'd just done, and the vehemence in her words. When she spoke again, her voice was more controlled, though it still threatened to break. "If you stay behind us, we should be able to keep you safe enough. We are going to fight our way to the servants' quarters— that's not far, right?" Alistair nodded, and she continued, "We will find you some clothes, and I will fill a wash-basin for you, at which point you will quickly wash and change. You will accompany us from this point forward, and I will ask Duncan to place you— formally— under the protection of the Grey Wardens." All three of them were staring at her in astonishment. She could not tell which of them was the most surprised, though she suspected that it was Jowan. She'd never been close to any of the other apprentices, and while Jowan had been picked on as well, he did his own share of teasing, and she'd never pretended to like him. She realised that her voice had grown loud, and lowered it. "I would send you back to town with Leliana, but I think you're probably safer with us— and truthfully, we need her."

"You're not afraid that I'll run— or betray you?" It was as if Alistair were asking the question, though Jowan had voiced it.

"Jowan," she realised that her tone was probably condescending, so she softened it to the best of her ability, "It would surprise me if you were able to walk without difficulty, let alone run. As for your magic, I suspect that it will take some time and healing before you can so much as light a match-stick." It occurred to her that if she'd made that remark while they were both in the tower, Jowan would have reacted in defense of his wounded pride, but he simply nodded and allowed himself to be ushered out of the cell. Jowan had always had a bit of the 'kicked puppy' about him, and he had never really expected to be defended by anyone, but this went well beyond that. This was a spirit that needed as much healing as the body it was bound to.

She shook her head, then sent rejuvenation spells spinning around and into him, several in quick succession. He nearly jumped at the first one, but settled quickly, sending her a look of raw gratitude.

"Stay behind us," she cautioned, "I've no intention of watching you die."

Jowan looked like he was about to argue, then seemed to change his mind. Lorelei tried for an encouraging smile, then nodded to Leliana, who was taking up the rear, and followed Alistair down the corridor, towards more re-animated dead.

* * *

It was Leliana who managed to calm the screaming girl enough for the rest of the group to remove their fingers from their ears. Lorelei's were still ringing as the redhead explained that the terrified girl was Valena, maid of the Arlessa and daughter of the town's blacksmith, Owen.

"Are you injured?" Valena was staring at Jowan, so Lorelei stepped in front of the much-abused mage and repeated her question. Her eyes were wide, and when she stopped trying to look around Lorelei, they darted all over, taking in her robes, her sash, her staff, and probably every smudge and stain, every loose hair.

"No, I don't think so..." Her voice was weak and raspy from screaming, a fact that Lorelei found oddly satisfying. If she had to inflict her shrieks upon them all, the least she could do was suffer a little from it.

"There's an exit the way we came, through the dungeons. We've cleared the path pretty thoroughly," Lorelei spoke slowly, "Or, if you hold back and stop staring at my companion, you can come with us for a ways and go out through the main gate."

"Oh, I... I didn't mean, I... just... he..." Lorelei waved off her attempts at an apology. "He worked here and then the Arlessa said that it was him—"

"The Arlessa was wrong," Lorelei said evenly, "Jowan is under my protection."

"Valena, your father is so worried," Leliana cut in, and for once, Lorelei was grateful that she did so, "He will be so relieved that you are safe." There was no wiser course than to allow the other woman to take over, so that was exactly what she decided to do.

* * *

"Holy Maker," Lorelei's head snapped up at Alistair's exclamation, and was glad that she'd instructed Jowan and Valena to hang back, kept company by Leliana, who had a distinct talent for captivating people out of fear or funk. She'd barely taken in the tall, armoured horror and its small crowd of undead before a force pulled her forward, scraping her knees and shins on the stone steps ascending from the cellar and slamming her into Alistair, who had stepped in front to protect her. He turned at the impact, a question on his lips, and then whirled in time to block an arrow from an archer.

"Get back inside and close the hatch," she hissed to Valena and Jowan, jerking her chin in a gesture for Leliana to join the fight. She heard the sound of the hatch closing, having already turned to send several healing spells Alistair's way, and a few glyphs toward the strongest-looking undead. Leliana was wide-eyed for a moment before smoothly drawing her bow and picking off attackers with a quick succession of precise, powerful shots. Lorelei was glad— she was occupied with the simple task of keeping Alistair healed and it was difficult enough to stay focussed with the group of soldiers shouting and banging on the gates. Occassionally, one of them would be lifted, by an unseen hand, hurled into the metal bars, and allowed to fall in a heap. Lorelei could do little more than send the odd helpful spell their way, and edge a little closer to the lever that would open the gate, still keeping her attention mostly focussed on Alistair. Her fellow Grey Warden was barely holding his own against the massive revenant and its allies, though a few well-aimed arrows went a long way towards evening the odds.

She reached the lever just as her mana was close to being exhausted, and, using her weight, managed to throw it, spin, send a healing spell Alistair's way, trip over a plant and crash into the wall. By the time she regained her feet, Sten had ducked under the gate, still rising, and was running toward the battle, swinging a massive greatsword distinct from the one she remembered him using and howling.

"Are you all right?" Lorelei blinked with surprise, wondering how Leliana had reached her side so quickly, then shook off her confusion and downed a lyrium potion. When her lips and tongue stopped humming, she nodded and cast several more healing spells, using her mana as quickly as it was replenished.

She almost heard her name as Leliana cried out; it sounded muffled, like someone had covered over the speaker's mouth, or Lorelei's own ears. There was a tight feeling in her chest, and a sensation of movement— of being tossed about by a powerful current, or the backlash of a spell gone awry.

It was quick, and disconcerting, as was looking up into the eerie grin of the revenant, carved by decay into what had once been a living face. Her side was burning and cold at the same time, and she realised— in a disconnected sort of manner— that she had been dragged along the ground, debris and cobblestones tearing at her robes. She shifted and curled into a tight ball and the revenant's blade struck the dirt where her head had just been, missing her by the barest amount. She thrust both arms up while the creature pulled back for another blow, and with her remaining will, summoned the same fire that she had brought to bear at the top of the Tower of Ishal.

It was rather less impressive, fueled by her own mediocre reserves instead of blood magic, but it pushed the revenant back, and that gave Alistair the opportunity to put himself in front of her, and Sten the opening that he needed to land the blow that relieved the creature of its head.

"Maker's breath."

"Are you all right?"

"What _was_ that?"

There were several other exclamations as everyone seemed to want to speak at once, except for Sten, who picked her up and set her on her feet like she weighed nothing, which to him, was likely true enough. She didn't bother dusting herself off; instead, she inspected herself and others for injury, then cast appropriate healing spells and drank another dose of lyrium potion. Leliana was already coaxing Jowan and a very reluctant Valena out of the cellar.

"You found survivors." Lorelei turned to the speaker, careful to do so slowly while the dizziness from the revenant's spell had yet to wear off. It was Bann Teagan. "Maker, you only found two? That can't bode well for my brother and his family." His eyes followed Valena briefly as she crossed the courtyard to the gate, and then broke into a run, fleeing towards the town like— well, like she'd just escaped from a castle full of monsters.

"It wouldn't generally, no," Lorelei knew that she had to be very careful with what she said. She did not want to tell Bann Teagan that his nephew was possessed by a demon, but if it was a willing possession and some of the boy remained, the family had significantly better chance of still being alive than the rest of the castle's inhabitants. "But it is too soon to make assumptions about who survives and who does not."

"I want to go with you," he said finally, "We stand a better chance at reclaiming the castle if we hold the main hall." Lorelei was shaking her head, but she did not miss the tell-tale tightening of the Bann's jaw. He was going to argue the point. She straightened, and pulled herself to her full height, which barely brought the top of her head level with the nobleman's chin. It was almost funny, really, how very _not intimidating_ she managed to be.

"With all due respect, Bann Teagan," her voice had this slightly squeaky quality which she attributed to a combination of nervousness and the after-effects of the revenant's magic, "I understand that if the Arl and his family are dead—"

"I need to know," Teagan insisted, "I need to see for myself if my brother still lives."

"I'm not saying that you can't, but— Bann Teagan, you must understand. The castle is crawling with monsters, and—" He made a cutting motion with his hand, and Lorelei crossed her arms over her chest. Alistair was looking back-and-forth between the two of them, as if unsure of with whom to side, and while she did not risk glancing away from Teagan for long enough to study the Qunari's face, Sten's stance radiated displeasure.

"Bann Teagan," she continued, once she realised that Teagan was opting to stare her down rather than add to his argument, "The people of Redcliffe have lost a great deal. The basement, cellar and servant's quarters have offered up two survivors. I am hopeful that the Arl yet survives, along with the Arlessa and your nephew, but I dare not expect it. You have taken responsibility for this village and its people— they can ill-afford to lose you as well." She did not want to tell him that his nephew was probably possessed by a demon and would, in all likelihood, have to be slain; she wanted even less to have him discover it first-hand.

"You would have me—"

"I would have you wait. It is not yet nightfall. Allow us to secure the main hall and deal with the demon that caused this." Lorelei hoped that Teagan would see reason, but she visualized the gesture and short incantation required for the sleep spell, just in case he didn't, "I am not asking you to abandon your brother. Had we done as you planned, we wouldn't even have entered the castle until tomorrow."

"Yes, but—"

"Bann Teagan," Leliana added her own voice to Lorelei's, apparently thinking that her own argument wasn't convincing enough, "I am sure that we can rescue the Arl and his family. Lorelei and Alistair are _Grey Wardens_ , after all." Lorelei winced, and then noticed Alistair looking at her with sympathy. She smiled weakly, then turned her attention back to Teagan, who was caving to what she hoped was a combination of her logical argument and Leliana's charm. It would be somewhat depressing if making a logical argument meant absolutely nothing if you didn't have a pretty face, a silken voice and a tenuous connection to a legend.

"Very well," the words were uttered as a sigh, and the nobleman glanced up at the great doors with a sad look that spoke to his concern for his family. He straightened, squaring his shoulders as if to take up a great weight, and then gestured for the few soldiers left to Redcliffe to resume their formation. With slow, deliberate steps that reflected his reluctance to leave, he headed down the path and across the bridge to the village.

"What about me?" Jowan asked, and Lorelei grimaced.

"You're not leaving my sight for a good long while." He flinched, and she sighed. "Valena was told that you were at fault for this, and I doubt that she was the only one," she gestured in a wide arc to the castle, "What's left of the villagers might tear you apart— or worse— if they believed that. Which they might. Besides, as an apostate, you're not safe anyway."

"You think I'll run." It was classic Jowan, and it made her feel like she was back in the Tower, back in her old life where she was mostly ignored. It almost made her smile, even though she'd always found this quirk of Jowan's particularly annoying.

"I think that you are very much at risk, without the ability to defend yourself." She made a point of looking at his twisted, broken fingers that couldn't make the proper gesture to cast so much as a spark, and he flinched, folding his arms behind his back so that his hands weren't visible to her.

"Why would you even care what happens to me? It's not like we were—" he made a face, "— _friends_ or anything."

"Why wouldn't I care? Maker's _blood_ , Jowan, it's as if you don't expect me to have any feelings at all!" There was something about his expression that made her feel suddenly cold and painfully still, like her blood had frozen in her veins. "Oh, _Jowan_." If his fingers hadn't been so badly mangled that it made wringing them impossible, she had a feeling he'd be doing just that as he looked everywhere except at her.

"Am I missing something?" Alistair was studying them both in confusion, and Lorelei sighed.

"Nothing important," she answered, shaking her head, "Let's get moving. Jowan, as before, stay behind the group and out of the fighting."

"All right," Alistair didn't look like he really believed her, but he shrugged and shifted his balance, readying his sword and shield, "Let's go storm the castle."

* * *

"So you are the ones that defeated my soldiers?" The boy's eyes narrowed and he stepped forward, studying Lorelei with an unnatural attention. "Why are you staring at me?"

"Connor!" The woman had a shrill voice, exaggerated by the thick Orlesian accent, and when she came into view, she matched it. Everything about her screamed spoiled, from her perfectly smoothed hair and meticulously painted face to the stitching on the toes of her soft silken shoes. She placed herself between Lorelei and the boy and managed to look haughty despite her obvious concern for whom Lorelei assumed was her son. "Don't hurt my son, I beg you! He is just a boy—" When her eyes settled on Jowan, hanging back from the group, her expression turned murderous, "— _you_! You caused this!" Jowan lifted his hands as if to guard from a blow, and the sight of his ruined fingers gave Lorelei the prompting that she needed to step forward.

"You are Arlessa Isolde," she straightened her shoulders as she spoke, and managed to gain an extra inch of height. It brought the top of her head even with the tip of the woman's carefully powdered nose.

"Yes, and I don't recall inviting you into my home—"

"And yet you don't seem concerned about playing host to a cadre of demons," Sten mused, and his expression was as bland as his voice as he turned to Leliana, "Is this normal for your country?"

"How dare—"

"Enough, mother," the boy stepped out from behind Isolde, and the Arlessa glanced down at her son, "You are beginning to bore me."

"Connor, I—" Lorelei blinked at her own confused feelings. Isolde seemed inherently unlikeable, but she was both afraid of and afraid for her son.

"Now it's staring at me, mother," the demon said, peering at Lorelei with interest, "What is it? I can't see clearly."

"This— is a woman, Connor, as I am."

"You lie! She is not at all like you— why, just look at her! Half your age and _pretty_ , too. I'm surprised that you didn't execute her in a fit of jealousy. That _is_ why you don't hire elves, after all." Lorelei flinched right along with Isolde, though for different reasons.

"I'm not an elf," she managed finally, crossing her arms over her chest to keep her heart contained within, "You're a demon of desire, aren't you?"

"This is my son, you—" Isolde sputtered.

"What is it that you promised the boy? To save his father, perhaps?" Lorelei pressed on, trying to sound as confident as she could. She probably sounded like a mouse. The abomination laughed, and it was a horrible, sinister sort of sound, one that pulled limbs off insects and let them go to watch them suffer.

"Tell me, creature, why is it that you have come here?" The words could just as likely have been hers, but they were spoken by the demon, and before she could answer, the thin arms went up and the boy began to rise into the air. "I tire of this already. You will pay for disturbing my fun!"

Lorelei turned her head, catching movement at the edges of her vision, and had time to register the smell of corpses, the abomination's eerie laughter, and Isolde screaming before something collided with the back of her head and she pitched forward.

Everything went went fuzzy, and was spinning about before she could so much as lift her arms to ward against the rapidly approaching floor.

She had enough time, before everything went black, to think that maybe she should have seen that coming.

* * *

She pushed herself up, and her hands sank into a soft, muddy-coloured substance that stretched, then resisted the pressure and pushed up slightly, like it was breathing. She closed her eyes and sucked in several breaths as she pulled her legs forward, put her feet under her and stood. She swayed slightly, and the air warmed around her, the mist receding but leaving a feeling of heaviness behind.

"You're not supposed to be here," a thin voice sounded at her shoulder, and she opened her eyes and turned her head, finding a little boy staring up at her with wide blue eyes. He was familiar, and she rubbed her temples, trying to remember why. Her thoughts were slow and confused; her heart quickened and her skin prickled at some unknown danger and she tried to keep herself calm as her gaze swept over the twisted, partially formed landscape.

Connor Guerrin. Her eyes were drawn back to the boy's as soon as the name came to her. They narrowed into little slits of blue, and his lips widened in a grin— a grin like she'd never seen on a child's face.

"Well," he said finally, his voice rising in pitch and taking on a menacing echo, "This _is_ a surprise."

And then the creature was gone, turning to mist as he spun away from her, leaving her alone as her surroundings shifted, guided by some sort of focus.

She reached out and brushed her fingers against a brightly-coloured tapestry, then pressed her hand against it, feeling the hard stone behind it. When she took a step forward, the spongy ground was gone, replaced with a polished floor. She forced her breathing to slow— her mind had gone from sluggish to panicked. Laughter that was anything but childlike bounced around in the stone hallway from both directions.

"Come and find me, little Dreamer."

Lorelei was not entirely sure that she wanted to, but it didn't look like she had much of a choice in the matter.

" _Merde_." She was glad that the word stayed with her until it faded, in the way that words were supposed to, instead of flouncing around like that unnatural laughter. She allowed herself one final shudder before she straightened, looked both ways, and then picked a direction.

* * *

"Enough, Uncle! I will have no more of this discussion." The door was flung open, then closed with the slow care of a man trying not to break an object in his anger.

Lorelei flattened herself against the wall, not daring to breathe, as the man passed her, too hurried to notice the eavesdropper. The edge of his sleeve brushed against her skin; she felt nothing. A detached part of her wondered if this was part of the demon's game— meant to remind her that she was outmatched— a mere mouse in the realm of a hunter.

She did not dare raise her eyes, so she was only able to note that he wore very fine pants tucked into very fine boots. Her fists were twisted in the fabric of her robes; it was a few slow, deep breaths before she could free her hands, and a few more before she could force herself to remove herself from the wall and walk stiffly past the door. As she passed, it opened.

"Hold!" She stopped mid-step. "Yes, you. Come here." Her braid shifted slightly against her neck as she turned, first her head, then the rest of her body, until she faced the speaker. When she did not move forward, he did, and when his hands closed around her shoulders, she could do little more than stare at him in shock. "I do not know your face," he continued, and she blinked. "Can you not speak?" He shook her, lightly.

"I can speak," she said finally, and when he released her, she resisted the urge to rub her shoulders. His grip hadn't been bruising, but there had been _something_ to the contact, a sort of heat that the other specters lacked. When she looked up again, it was into narrowed eyes the same blue as the boy whose form the demon had usurped. His lips were tightly pressed together, and she realised that he was assessing her, in the same cold manner that templars had sometimes. He was deciding whether or not to see her as a threat.

All of a sudden, he wavered, swayed, and then leaned into the wall, pain twisting his expression into a grimace. She moved forward immediately. "Arl Eamon—" She had not realised the truth of the words until she'd spoken them, "Are you all right?" He was gasping for breath, colour fading from his skin and hair and yes— even his eyes.

"The Arl is not long for this world. Your world, either." The Arl straightened, and when he looked past her, his expression changed to one of confusion. Lorelei felt like everything behind her had gone suddenly dark and cold, contrasting with the heat pouring out in waves from the man in front of her. She did not turn around.

"Isolde? What are you talking about?"

"Arl Eamon, that is not your wife," the words came out with odd pauses between them as she fought to speak through clenched teeth.

"Not my wife? What are you— you're _mad_." Lorelei turned toward the demon, her body stiff with fear but still compliant. It wore the form of the Arlessa, but lacked some vital detail. She couldn't quite put her finger on it, but somehow, she knew that Eamon was human in a way that this creature couldn't even approach.

"Enough games," Lorelei's voice squeaked, and she winced, but held her ground, folding her arms in front of her, but not crossing them. Not-Isolde grinned, a little wider than was possible for an actual human (then again, this was the Fade) and lifted her arms. The castle and Eamon came apart like shattered glass, bits and pieces swirling around in a maelstrom with Lorelei at its center. When the world re-formed around her, there was a whisper at her shoulder.

Lorelei threw herself on the ground, glanced up at the twisted structure that was now coated in ice, then pulled herself to her feet and began to gesture wildly, gathering her own power around her and reminding herself that her will was as real as the demon's.

She hoped.

* * *

"She's waking up!" A pale, thin face with an intent expression hovered up-side down above her, and it took her a few moments to recognize Jowan. He looked to the side. "She's fine, I think."

"Well, I do have the headache to end all headaches," she corrected, and winced at the brightness of Jowan's smile. She heard movement around her, then she was pulled up, first into a seated position, then to her feet. It felt like the ground was bucking under her feet, and she stumbled and was pulled tight against a strong, armoured body. "Wh _o_ a."

"That's what all the ladies say," Alistair quipped, but when she looked up, his face didn't match his words. "Are you all right?" He asked, and his voice matched the worried expression on his face.

"Just dizzy," she said slowly, and the templar nodded, then they stepped away from each other slowly. Alistair didn't let her go completely until she was steady, "Thank you." She looked around and noticed that the Main Hall was littered with corpses in various levels of decay and dismemberment. "What happened?"

"You were knocked out in the first wave," Alistair explained, wincing as he spoke, "I thought you were dead, at first."

"He was _magnificent_ ," Leliana said quickly, "He took out most of the creatures on his own and he almost caught them—"

"Connor went out the door and locked it," Alistair pointed, and Lorelei followed the gesture to a great door, in front of which slumped the Arlessa. The woman's hair was falling out around the edges of her bun, and her shoulders shook with what Lorelei realised was the rasping, whispered sound of someone crying when they were beyond tears and sobs.

"We need to go after the demon," Sten's face was as stern as his voice, and gestured to the weeping puddle of a person that Isolde was, "She is pathetic and weak and cannot stop us." He paused, peering down at her, and for a moment, it was as if his face softened. "I am glad that you have recovered. _You_ , at least, will see sense."

"We do need to check on Connor," she admitted.

"The boy is no more," Sten objected with a frown, "This is the way when a demon takes control, is it not?"

"Not always," Lorelei was too tired to explain, so she shrugged. "It is too complicated to get into, and if I am right—"

" _If you're right_?" Jowan was watching her, and she realised that she was quite sick of people looking at her like she was a curiosity, or some sort of strange creature that had never been seen.

"It has been known to happen," she said slowly.

"Right about what? _Pashara_ , we are wasting time."

"It's like I said," Jowan's voice lacked its customary whine, and it made her wonder at what he might have been if he hadn't always seen himself as needing to be the best, and failing. "You were in the Fade."

"I was unconscious." He wasn't satisfied.

"No, it's different than just that. _You were in the Fade_. Mages don't just _go_ into the Fade like that. It takes a ritual, with a lot of lyrium. Lyrium or blood." She didn't want to spend too much time thinking on that 'or blood' bit.

"Jowan, this _really_ isn't the time." Jowan's expression was mulish, but he relented, and he didn't even revert to his customary whining. Lorelei found that she was a bit impressed.

"Do you think— do you think that the demon might actually be gone?" Alistair's voice was hopeful, and she gestured to the door, still blocked by Isolde.

"There's only one way to find out." As they approached, Isolde pulled herself to her feet. Lorelei held a hand out to the others, and they held back.

"I won't let you hurt my son," although her voice was barely above a whisper, it was obvious that she meant her words, "You'll have to kill me before I'll let you—"

"This is how everything got out of hand, isn't it?" Alistair said suddenly, an edge of bitterness to his voice, "If you hadn't tried to hide him from the Chantry..."

" _You_!" Isolde's face twisted into an ugly expression as she stepped forward and slapped Alistair, hard enough to leave an angry red mark on his cheek. The templar stepped back and stared at the woman in shock and hurt, pressing a gauntletted hand to the side of his face, "Of all the people, _you_! And now you've come to take my son! He's innocent! He's just a boy— _my boy_."

" _Enough_!"

She was surprised at how loud her voice was, and at the way it made everyone hold their position, like they were life-like statues of themselves, frozen in this moment in time while she stepped between the Arlessa and her comrade. It was like she was outside of her body, observing as if it was some sort of bizarre play. Alistair alone was still staring at Isolde— the rest had their attention focussed on her, rivetted for some reason that she couldn't quite understand until she followed their gazes, and saw the expression on her own face, and the hard lines of her body, from her straight back to her clenched fists.

It was like all the air was sucked from the room— and her with it— and pulled into the small, bruised and dirtied body that she recognized as her own, patches of reddened skin visible here and there where her robes had torn.

"Enough," she repeated, still recovering from the odd shift in her perspective and struggling to keep the horrible anger— directed keenly at Isolde— in check. Her voice was calmer than it had ever been, and if it had been in monotone, she might have thought that it belonged to a Tranquil of the Circle. "Arlessa Isolde, you will step aside."

"How dare you—" Lorelei knew, somehow, that the words should have been flavoured with outrage, but Isolde's courage seemed to abandon her in that moment, and she took a few hesitant steps back.

"Leliana, please assist the Arlessa." Leliana, to her credit, was across the room and beside Isolde within seconds.

"Assist? What do you—" Isolde slumped, and had Leliana been any slower, would have fallen to the ground in a heap. As it was, the redhead eased her to the floor and then glanced up.

"A sleep spell," Lorelei explained, lowering her hands, then turned to Alistair and whispered a spell to soothe the red welt on his face. "Are you alright?" He still looked shaken.

"I knew that she hated me," he said slowly, "But I never—" He shook his head. "It's not important. We're supposed to check on Connor."

Lorelei nodded, and turned back to Leliana, who was standing again and looking at her expectantly.

"Could you get the door, please, Leliana?"

Before the she could reach the door, it opened, and when Leliana stepped aside, Lorelei once again found herself face-to-face with Connor Guerrin— only this time, it was just a boy, and not a boy possessed by a desire demon.

"Hello," he said finally, eyes wide and guileless and blue. Lorelei smiled, then, and found that her anger was gone, put away for later, at the sight of a frightened child.

"Hello, Connor. Do you know who I am?" The boy blinked.

"You're the one who scared away the mean lady," he said finally, and then he was looking at her like she was some kind of personal hero.

When she glanced around at the others, she found their expressions far too similar to the awestruck boy's for comfort. She closed her eyes and let out her breath in an exasperated, exhausted sigh that might have also been a word, whispered so quietly that only someone very close to her or with exceptional hearing could possibly make it out.

" _Merde_."


	6. Maternal Instincts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As they head for Kinloch Hold, Lorelei copes with injuries, nightmares, and heavy reality of something very rotten going on within the guilded cage of the Circle Tower.

Lorelei wrapped her arms around herself tightly as she watched Alistair lead the reluctant, wide-eyed boy away from camp and toward the lakeside. Connor had been terrified to leave her side since they'd met properly, without the desire demon present. His discomfort was so severe that even the thought of sleeping in a tent alone inspired a sort of panic, with tiny pupils and rapid, rasping breathing. Alistair had set up the young mage's tent between Lorelei's and his own, and while Connor was calmed a little by the gesture, he was _still_ anxious. Not surprisingly, Alistair was quite good with the boy, comforting him with silly jokes and earnest sympathy when she found herself struggling to find the right words. Lorelei found that she was grateful, and not just because he provided a reprieve from the traumatized child. His presence was as comforting to her as it was to Connor, from his easy smile to concerned glances to shared winces to the occasional, reluctant pressure of his hand on her shoulder.

Connor Guerrin was a solemn sort, and he was quick to hold himself responsible for what had happened at Redcliffe; the whole ordeal had left him quiet, guilt-ridden, and terrified of himself. Lorelei was still angry at Isolde, for what she had done to the son she claimed to have loved more than herself as much as for what she'd allowed to happen to the people for whom she was _supposed_ to be responsible. If she'd been more like her son— but the Arlessa was a selfish creature, spoiled by an indulgent husband and endured by everyone else, and until someone forced her to change, she was going to keep leaving messes for more responsible people to clean up. Redcliffe had been a prosperous city; it had been reduced to an empty castle and a nearly deserted town. The handful of families that remained— pieces of families, mostly— would never be the same. Connor loved his mother, as any boy his age would, but Lorelei suspected that he was better off far away from her influence. In fact, she'd bet coin on it— and she was not the type to gamble.

"You have sent the boy away with the other warden," Lorelei glanced up at Sten, more to acknowledge his presence than to see his face. He was at her shoulder, so reading his expression would involve twisting her neck too far for it to be worth the effort. The question was clear in his voice, so there was hardly any need.

"Yes, I needed him away from camp." The Qunari shifted beside her, and she felt herself smile, just a little. "You are wondering why I asked for you, and why I ordered camp set up early." Usually, they marched until the dark fingers of dusk began to stretch out across the sky, like a great hand wiping dirt across a pale forehead. Her thoughts darkened considerably as they turned to her reasons for camping early, and for sending Alistair away with Connor.

"I am," Sten answered, his voice bland, "Is it related to your reason for sending the child away?"

"It is." She hugged herself, just a little bit tighter, willing her emotions to settle. She'd sent Alistair away and she'd need every bit of her concentration and magic to deal with the problem looming ahead of her. Sten waited silently for her explanation, as if sensing that she was having difficulty finding the words. She took a deep breath and held it for several seconds before letting it out slowly.

"I need to heal Jowan," she said finally, "And I will— I will need your help."

"I know nothing of magic," Sten's disgust was evident. Lorelei knew that his feelings toward magic were not the same as his feelings toward _her_ , and the rarity of that was enough to lessen the sting of it.

"Save that it is dangerous, I know," she unfolded her arms, and then folded them again. "It is not for the magic that I need you." Lorelei finally looked up at the giant, noting his confusion, and gestured to Jowan, who sat awkwardly by the fire, staring into it while Leliana chattered at him. "Jowan has extensive injuries, and they have been—" she closed her eyes, finding the mere idea difficult, "He cannot travel with us as he is: he is in constant pain, he is slower than Connor and I cannot imagine Duncan— our Commander— offering him any sort of protection if he cannot be of any use. And he can't, not until his condition is resolved. It is an ugly business— I am going to have to re-break most of his bones, among other things. I believe that I can do that, as well as heal them, with magic, but it's hardly a pleasant process." When she looked at Sten's face again, neck aching from the angle, his face was grim.

"You need me to restrain him," Lorelei was beginning to realise that, for some reason unfathomable to her, the Qunari's respect for her was becoming permanent— even growing— and she shifted uncomfortably under his scrutiny. "You wished the boy spared his screams." She looked away, in the direction that Alistair had taken Connor.

"Alistair too, actually," she admitted quietly, and Sten made a short sound that sounded like a cross between a bark and a laugh.

Wait— had Sten just _laughed_? She blinked, wondering how she'd managed to make the stern giant laugh without even telling a joke. And Leliana and Jowan had noticed, and were looking their way, and Alistair was going to be _furious_ for having missed it, even though— perhaps even especially since— it had likely been at least partially at his expense.

"Do you intend to begin soon?" Sten prompted, and she shook herself and gestured Jowan over, toward his tent, set up by Alistair and Leliana along with Connor's. He came reluctantly, and Lorelei promised that the first thing he was going to do once he'd recovered was take a bath. She couldn't promise that it would be hot, because in all honesty he'd probably be improved by a jump in the murkiest part of Lake Calenhad, even after his quick attempt to clean himself up at Redcliffe Castle.

"Was there something you needed?" He asked finally, clearly in pain, and Lorelei nodded, gesturing towards his tent.

"Just one more mess to clean up," she couldn't help the sharp edge in her voice, put there by her still-smoldering anger at that blasted noblewoman. Jowan blinked.

"You're going to kill me? After _all that_?" She almost laughed, and managed to stop herself— which was a good thing, because it would have developed into hysterics. There was a petulant note to his voice, but for the most part, he seemed resigned to the idea; this was probably because he knew that if that was what she intended, he was in no position to prevent it.

"No, Jowan, but before I'm finished, you may wish that I had."

* * *

"But surely there was another way—"

"It was us or the templars, Leliana. Alistair, help me out here." Alistair glanced between Lorelei and the redhead, and for a horrible moment, she wondered if he would end up siding with the former lay-sister.

"Lorelei's right," he said it reluctantly, and glanced over his shoulder at the tent where Connor Guerrin was sleeping, "The templars would have had to come and take him eventually, and they might not have been— gentle." Lines formed between Leliana's delicately arched eyebrows.

"Surely a templar wouldn't abuse a _child_ ," she said, as if nothing of the sort had ever happened, and Lorelei had rolled her eyes before she could stop herself.

"He's not a _child_ ," she said softly, "He's a _mage_. Perhaps you don't make that distinction, but many— especially the devout— do. It was one of the things that I took into consideration, though I will admit that it wasn't the main reason for my decision." Now Alistair was looking at her with that confused expression, and Lorelei sighed. "My primary reason, quite simply, that I was not leaving him in the care of _that woman_."

"But she's his mother!" Leliana's face puckered, and Lorelei was oddly reminded of someone much older who made just about the same face when she was about to begin a lecture. "I am sure that Arlessa Isolde would not harm her own son." Lorelei made an inarticulate noise and tugged on her braid in frustration, hard enough to sting, then tossed it over her shoulder.

"That's exactly my point— she already _has_." Leliana frowned, but before she could protest, Lorelei held up a hand, and she fell silent. "She hired an incompetent tutor," she spoke slowly, counting the points on her fingers, "She taught her son that being a mage was something to hide, something to be ashamed of. When she locked up Jowan— and might I just mention, had him _brutally tortured_ , she did nothing to ensure that Connor wasn't practicing magic on his own. She didn't even lock up Jowan's room! When Connor was possessed by a demon, she allowed him to be a part of that massacre rather than have him revealed— rather than deal with the _embarrassment_ of having a mage for a son." A rush of pain prompted her to pause and look down at her hands, which she'd balled into fists so tight that her nails had left angry red marks in her palms. She forced her hands flat, and spread her fingers wide before muttering a simple healing spell. Then, she took several slow, deep breaths while she watched the marks disappear.

"She has damaged her son almost as badly as the people of Redcliffe— I say almost, because he, unlike most of the people who depended on the Arl and Arlessa— will live. And yes, I do hold her responsible, because _she doesn't_. She will blame everyone else— eventually, even Connor— rather than accept that she should have thought of someone other than herself." Lorelei felt her anger fade, though it did not disappear entirely. "I do not know how I can be more clear in my meaning, Leliana, but I would feel guilty about leaving a _rat_ in the care of Arlessa Isolde— even a rat that _I didn't particularly like_." Alistair was starting at her, mouth opening and closing as if each time he meant to say something, he thought better of it at the last minute.

"I—" Lorelei waved off whatever Leliana planned to say.

"I am not angry with _you_ — well, not much. I know that you mean well," she said softly, "Believe it or not, I actually know a thing or two about the Chantry, and the treatment of mages." She felt one corner of her mouth twitch slightly— the one that always went just a little higher than the other when she smiled and didn't mean it. She pressed her lips together— there was no use trying to placate Leliana; she would either understand or she wouldn't. It took a few moments, but eventually, the redhead nodded, stood, and disappeared into her tent.

"Alistair, would you mind terribly if I took first watch? I'm a little too—" she gestured wildly with her fingers, and he smiled, just a little, "—to sleep."

"You are alright," he said carefully, phrasing it like a statement but trailing off on a high note like a question.

"I'm just tired, and angry, and frustrated." She shrugged, "And I'm worried. Connor is terrified and Jowan— Jowan was hurt really badly; healing him took a lot out of me and I don't know..." Her vision blurred, and she realised that her eyes were filling with tears. She blinked rapidly and managed to achieve clearer vision and wet lashes, and was grateful that she didn't have to cry for it. "There's so much that I don't understand, that I'm not sure about, and I wish... Well." She almost laughed, "I wish that I didn't have to make any decisions. I never made decisions in the tower and I probably never would have. I feel a little lost, and a lot out of my element." Alistair nodded, then stared down at his feet and drew half-circles in the dirt with them. Lorelei, a little sick of him refusing to look at her and knowing that their height difference allowed it, stepped forward so that she was looking straight into his eyes, and he into hers.

He turned bright red from his neck to the roots of his hair, and she realised how close she was to him and stepped back hurriedly.

"I— ah— I'm going to—" he gestured to his tent and she waved him off, feeling rather warm herself, all of a sudden.

* * *

The boy was pale, shaking, and covered in a cold sweat that had a distinct, sharp smell. Lorelei held him tightly until he began to relax, sobbing and shaking decreasing in violence until he was nearly still, and then she pulled him out of the tent and toward the fire.

Connor straightened abruptly, his already splotchy face growing redder as he stared at something behind Lorelei, and she turned, noticing that the rest of the party had assembled around the fire— and save Leliana, seemed occupied in looking in any direction other than theirs. To her credit, the red-haired beauty was unashamed in her concern, but that did little for the child's pride as he struggled to recover his composure.

"I didn't mean to disturb everyone," he said finally, and Lorelei heard Alistair's sharp intake of breath. When she looked over at her fellow warden, he wore an expression so complex that she couldn't quite name all the emotions involved.

"You have been through an ordeal, Connor," seeking an occupation for her nervous hands, she began to disassemble and remake the thick braid that held her hair— mostly— away from her face. "The nightmares are not unexpected, and you've no reason to be ashamed of them."

"It's all my fault," he slumped beside the fire, his face screwed up into an expression akin to self-loathing. "If I hadn't— if I'd been better—"

"I've yet to meet anyone that chose to be a mage," Lorelei kept her voice low, and was momentarily proud of her clipped, matter-of-fact speech that had taken years to master. Orlesian words blurred at the edges and sometimes ran together. She watched Connor closely and considered her words with great care— whatever her feelings for Isolde, she did not want to be too critical of the boy's mother. Or his father, for that matter. She clamped down on her anger— Connor was in a delicate state that she did not want to aggravate; he might as well accept responsibility for the Blight. She glanced at Alistair without thinking, then focussed on the troubled, guilt-ridden child.

"Connor," he looked up at her, eyes wide, "What happened at Redcliffe was not your fault. This is why the Circle of Magi exists— to educate mages and train them to master their talent."

"Jowan said that it was a prison." At her raised eyebrows, he looked away sheepishly, "Well, he wrote it in his journal. I read a bit of it after— do you think that my mother is a bad person?" Lorelei blinked rapidly, surprised by the sudden topic shift— though she shouldn't have been. Connor worried at his lip with his teeth, and his shoulders lifted as he came to his mother's defense. "It's not mother's fault," he insisted, "She was just trying to protect me. And when father got sick... she said that she would save him."

"The demon promised to save your father?" Connor nodded.

"And now— he's going to die now, isn't he? Because of me."

"No," it came out a bit more enthusiastically than she'd intended, so she took another deep breath, "Connor, I spent some time with your father before we left Redcliffe." She'd rather have spent the time healing Jowan— her time in the Fade, stuck in bits and pieces of the combined dreams, nightmares and memories of both the Arl and his son, had left a bitter taste in her mouth and an itchy, crawling feeling under her skin. Connor was staring at her with bright blue eyes filled with hope and hero worship, and she forced herself to continue. "You must understand that spirits of the Fade— especially demons— cannot be trusted. Even those that mean no harm can be very dangerous."

"I don't understand."

"Connor, Jowan did not poison your father." Connor stared at her, then nodded.

"It didn't seem like him." Lorelei smiled a bit at that, but when she remembered the words she'd been working up to, her amusement disappeared.

"From what I saw in the Fade, the demon has been manipulating your father for weeks, through his dreams. Mages are more sensitive to magic, but that does not mean that they are the only ones who can be influenced by spirits." Connor's mouth was not the only one that dropped open, and she pressed her lips together nervously as she waited for understanding to come to the boy. Her fingers absently destroyed her half finished braid and began anew.

"You mean—" Alistair caught Lorelei's meaning first, but he shut his mouth in the middle of his explanation.

"She tricked me," Connor said finally, "She made father sick and then she— told me that she could—" The young noble's face twisted as his emotions overwhelmed him and his power caused the Veil to twist and bunch like paper-thin fabric around him.

"Alistair!" As it turned out, she needn't have signaled the almost-templar at all: he was already on his feet, forcing all the breath and mana out of the three mages as he cleansed the area. He then set about helping them to their feet, wearing an expression of apology and concern. Even before she caught her breath again, she had to admit that as much as he'd hated growing up in the Chantry, he'd been well-trained.

Connor blinked rapidly, staring at Alistair, then at Lorelei, with surprise.

"I didn't hurt you, did I?" The bastard prince asked gently, and the boy shook his head.

"I— actually feel better," he admitted finally, "It's a little less scary, knowing that I couldn't just..." He seemed to fold into himself, once again overcome with guilt. "All those people who died..."

"What happened at Redcliffe was not your fault," Lorelei said softly, "But if it makes you feel a better, the Circle of Magi has had enough apprentices to have some expertise in the area. There are experienced Mages and Templars both— you are safer there than any other place in Thedas." Jowan, for his part, snorted, but was careful to do so quietly enough that Connor didn't notice.

"You promise?" Lorelei nodded, hoping that she wasn't making a promise that would later be broken, and that by the time Connor became aware of the unique dangers _within_ the Tower, he would be better equipped for them. Connor frowned. "You have to say it, or it's not _really_ a promise."

"I swear that the Circle of Magi will help you learn to control your power and teach you about the Fade, and the spirits that dwell there, so that what happened at Redcliffe will not happen again." She allowed herself to smile, then made a cross over her heart. "I also think that you are smart and responsible enough to take to those lessons, master them, and make your parents and teachers proud."

"And you?" Lorelei frowned, "Do you think you'll be proud of me, too?" She found herself blinking away sudden tears, as touched by the boy's admiration as she was unsettled by it. Giving in to impulse, she pulled Connor into a gentle hug.

"Young Connor Guerrin," she took care to whisper the words softly into his ear, "I am already proud of you."

She knew it was the right thing to do even before he hugged her back.

* * *

"So how is it," Jowan spoke with carefully constructed nonchalance, and Lorelei was immediately on her guard, "That you can enter the Fade without large amounts of blood or lyrium?"

"I'm still not sure that I can," she turned her shrug into a roll of her shoulders, shifting the weight of her staff and pack as she followed Alistair. She glanced back at Leliana, who was chatting with Connor under the pretense of helping him with his Orlesian grammar, and Sten, who brought up the rear and distributed glares to anyone who stared too long. "It is possible that the demon dragged me into the Fade when I was knocked unconscious." It seemed perfectly reasonable to her, but Jowan was shaking his head immediately.

"No, it makes sense," he said, and she made a face. If it made sense, why was he saying 'no'? She was beginning to wonder if she'd missed a significant head injury or two when she'd healed him. Jowan was looking at her sideways, through his lashes. "I remember I had a dream, once, and you were in it. It was— _different_. You were _real_ somehow." Lorelei almost laughed.

"It's possible that was the result of one of your late-night snacks," she pointed out, referencing the badly-kept secret of his nightly excursions to the kitchens... which later turned into excursions of a different kind.

"No," he was shaking his head again, as if saying 'no' was somehow unclear. "This was different. And I'm not the only one, either." Lorelei was put in mind of other apprentices who had avoided her after one of her particularly vivid dreams— the thought that she'd actually been in the Fade, actually sharing their dreams had never occurred to her. Belatedly, of course, it explained the reactions of the others. Jowan was studying her, and Lorelei quickened her pace, forcing him to jog a little to keep up.

"Tell me that you never dreamed of me," Jowan said finally, "And I'll concede that maybe the demon at Redcliffe just had a death wish."

"It didn't seem to think that I was a threat," she realised, just as the words were out of her mouth, that they weren't entirely accurate.

 _Well, this is a surprise_ , the demon had said.

 _You_ , Arl Eamon had said, opening his eyes to a face that he recognised, though they had never met.

_You're the one who scared away the mean lady._

"Tell me that you never dreamed of me," Jowan insisted stubbornly, and Lorelei opened her mouth to do that and shut him up and then remembered. "You're remembering something," he said, a hint of smugness wrapped in apprehension.

"Your mother had blonde hair," she said finally, and Jowan stared at her, looking like he was afraid of her, but too curious to look away. "Not white like Neria, or yellow like Isolde," she explained, a bit confused as to why he flinched at the mention of the Elf who had been his closest— and to some accounts only— friend in the Tower, "But that almost brown, almost grey colour. She had a tired, washed-out sort of look to her— the kind of person that you would forget as soon as you looked away, but she had striking eyes." Eyes that Jowan had inherited. He was staring at her, those eyes wide. "I had a dream, a long while back, where she was screaming at you. You were very young— if it hadn't been for the eyes, and your voice, then I'd never have known it was you." Jowan looked away, appearing to find a new interest in the grass by the road. Lorelei winced in sympathy, remembering what the woman had been yelling.

"The last time I saw my mother," he said finally, "Before my father left me at the Chantry— she called me a demon and threw me out of the house."

"I'm sorry." Jowan stared at her, eyes narrowed skeptically.

"Why would you be sorry? Like I said before, we weren't _friends_." Lorelei rolled her eyes.

"I wasn't _friends_ with anyone," she was surprised, actually, that she didn't sound more bitter. "That doesn't mean that I have to be happy when people suffer. Really, Jowan— was I _ever_ a bully?" Jowan opened his mouth, paused, and closed it again. He repeated this process several times before he actually voiced his response.

"No," he said, drawing out the vowel like he was reluctant to continue, "But you were so—" he made some vague gesture with his hands as he searched for the word, finally settling on "—stoic. And you knew everything. And then you were even _in our dreams_. It was creepy."

"I honestly never realised," she said softly, "I thought that they were just normal dreams. In fact, this explains a few things." She glanced at Alistair, remembering his surprise at her ability to sleep through the night. "Though it also inspires a whole lot of questions. Perhaps I will ask the First Enchanter about it when we reach the Tower." Jowan's expression darkened. "What is it?"

"I wouldn't be so quick to trust the First Enchanter," Jowan's words came out in a rush, and it took Lorelei a few moments to separate them properly from each other to make sense of the statement, "He bows to the Chantry's every whim and this— well, it's not exactly common. You know how intensely the Chantry fears magic that it can't control, that it doesn't understand— like the magic of the Chasind, or the Dalish. You used to be like a walking history book, so you should know." He looked away from her, and she realised that there was something that he wasn't saying— perhaps even a great deal that he wasn't saying. She watched him for a few moments, until his eye started to twitch, and then shrugged.

"I'll keep it in mind," she said finally, "Thanks for the warning."

"You're— welcome, I guess," his voice was more sad than bitter. Finding that a little unusual for Jowan, Lorelei made a note to have a longer, more involved discussion with the apprentice-turned-apostate before she actually set foot inside Kinloch Hold.

* * *

"So, Lorelei," Alistair sat down beside her and leaned forward, elbows on his knees and face turned up and sideways toward hers.

"Yes?"

"You said that your father was a mage. What happened to your mother? Was she a mage too?" Lorelei looked away from him and into the fire, and Alistair shifted. "I'm sorry. You don't have to tell me if you don't want to. I just..."

"My mother was an initiate of the Chantry, assigned to the Circle," she answered, returning Alistair's grimace of understanding. "She had some success hiding her condition for a while, but— such things are always found out, eventually. I was never told exactly what became of her, though I don't believe that she was executed. I'm not even certain that she was reassigned; I imagine losing your child and being forced to watch your lover live as a Tranquil is a painful experience, and the whole affair was very embarrassing for the Chantry as well as the Circle."

"That's—" When she looked at Alistair's face, it was full of sympathy. "That's terrible; I'm sorry."

"I never knew my mother personally, but there were always whispers and rumours about her— about me. I knew most of the story before my magic manifested, and I found out the rest when I was taken to the Circle." She shifted, angling her body so that she was turned towards him a bit more. The firelight threw misshapen, fingered shadows across his face, making one eye appear golden and shrouding the other with a patch of darkness. It made him look— different. "What of your mother?"

"She was a serving girl at Redcliffe Castle," he looked away from her, mirroring her earlier study of the fire and destroying the illusionary eye-patch. "She died when I was very young. I eventually found out that she had a daughter who moved away, so I have a sister— a half-sister, if you will." Alistair brightened, but Lorelei stiffened, wondering if the daughter left or was sent away, and more disturbingly, _why_. She was already suspicious of Eamon's motives in raising Alistair, and given what she'd seen in the Fade...

"After I joined the Wardens, I did some checking around, and found out that she lives in Denerim, but I could never quite bring myself to contact her. When this is all over, I'd like to. I think." Lorelei realised that she'd become distracted, and Alistair was watching her, looking confused. She smiled, just a little, and he smiled back.

"Did anyone ever tell you about her?"

"Who, my mother or my sister?" Lorelei shrugged.

"Either."

"Oh, ah— no. I only found out about Goldanna— that's my sister— because I overheard some of the other servants talking. All anyone ever told me about my mother was that she was a commoner, and so was I, and to never think that being the King's bastard entitled me to anything." Lorelei winced, but Alistair simply shrugged, flipping his palms out and then pressing his hands back together. "It wasn't so bad, really— the Arl took care of me, put a roof over my head. He didn't raise me as his own, if that's what you're imagining. I slept in hay, out in the stables, not on silk sheets— but he was good to me, and he didn't have to be."

"The Arlessa wasn't, though." Alistair winced.

"She resented the rumours that Eamon was my father. They weren't true, as you know, but of course they existed. The Arl didn't care, but Isolde sure did. She despised me. See, there was some trouble with the King when he married her, since she was— still is, I guess— Orlesian, and it was so soon after the war, but he loved her." Lorelei wondered about that— could a man who truly loved his wife subject her to that kind of embarrassment? "I can see now that she felt threatened by my presence— so off I was packed, sent to the nearest Chantry at age ten. I can't really blame her or the Arl for it, not anymore. He used to visit me, but I was stubborn— I hated it there— and eventually, he just stopped." Something clicked, and Lorelei found herself making a thorough study of her fellow warden, and he shifted under her scrutiny. Alistair was convinced that Eamon was a paragon of virtue, but she was beginning to think that the Arl of Redcliffe was unworthy of her loyal, innocent friend's admiration. Friend? Where had _that_ come from? "What is it? Is there something on my face again?"

"Alistair— how old are you? And when did the Arl stop visiting you?" Alistair straightened.

"I'm— what does that have to do with anything?" Lorelei twisted her braid around her wrist absently, then forced herself to let it go and set her hands in her lap as she looked up at his face.

"If you're around the same age as most templars are when they take their vows— or a little older— I was just wondering if the Arl's visits stopped around the time Connor was born." Bits and pieces of conversation began to fit together, and Lorelei didn't think that she'd like the look of the whole.

"I guess that would make sense, in a way," Alistair mused, "Isolde might have insisted that Eamon pay more attention to his son, and less to the bastard she'd made him get rid of."

"I'm starting to think that there's more to it than that," she said softly, and held her hands up to stop Alistair from peppering her with questions that she couldn't answer. "I really don't know, Alistair. It just seems— well, I don't know." She had to smile, at least a little, or her attempt to dismiss the idea would fall completely flat. "It could mean nothing at all, of course, and I should probably leave the politics for those more suited." And lying to those better able— but she didn't say that, of course.

"It's something to think about," he said, "Not that it matters much, with me being a Grey Warden and Connor— a mage, of all things!" Then he smiled, rose to his feet, and offered her his hand, "Come on, let's take a look around the camp before Leliana takes watch."

* * *

"Good," Connor's chin and shoulders lifted slightly at the praise, though his eyes remained closed, and Lorelei smiled, confident that the boy would do very well at the Circle. She wasn't an Enchanter, but the breathing exercise was simple and when she had answered his many questions about magic and the Circle, she'd been as complete as she could and he'd been very attentive to her answers. "I think you can practice a bit on your own, now. I find that if I do this exercise before bed, it helps me sleep." Connor opened his eyes, fixing his solemn blue gaze on her own.

"Thank you, my lady," she tried to keep herself from laughing, but only mostly succeeded. Connor was looking at her with a confused expression, and she was struck by how much he resembled his uncle, Teagan.

"I'm not a lady, Connor," she said slowly, "There are ranks within the Circle, but all mages are considered commoners, and wards of the Chantry."

"Then what should I call you?"

"My name is Lorelei."

"Father says that one should always be aware of proper—" Lorelei raised a hand, still smiling.

"I've no great rank within the Circle," she explained, "I ended my apprenticeship less than a year ago. In any case, I'm a Grey Warden, so if you must refer to me using a title, Warden will do." Her mouth twitched, "Though you might confuse Alistair if you do use it, since it could mean either of us."

"Warden Lorelei," he said slowly, and then he grinned, suddenly a little boy again. "Your name is as pretty as you are." She felt her cheeks warm a little, and she went very still.

"I am not pretty," she softened her tone at the look on his face, "But thank you, all the same. You are as charming as your uncle, Connor— I imagine that you will break many hearts." She turned her shrug into a shoulder roll and rose to her feet, just as Alistair appeared. She was grateful for the interruption, though she felt a little sorry for the stricken expression that had appeared— and just as quickly disappeared— on the young boy's face.

"We should get moving," Alistair said quickly, "We've finished packing up camp and Sten is pacing again."

"Of course," she did her best to forget the comment about her being 'pretty' when she turned to Connor, who was already on his feet and sketching a low bow in her direction.

"Thank you for the lesson, Warden Lorelei." It was odd, to see such formality from a child, but she tried not to let it show in her expression. For whatever reason, Connor had attached great significance to her opinion.

"Wow," Alistair said as Connor ran off to join Leliana and Sten, "I never imagined you as a teacher." He was looking at her _that way_ again, like he was redefining her in his mind. "I think you'd be really good at it, actually."

"It's possible that I would eventually have made Enchanter," she said, remembering that it had been one of the arguments against making her Tranquil. "My mentor believed that I'd be particularly good with the younger children, given my temperment. I imagine he'll be pretty surprised when he discovers that I've been recruited into the Grey Wardens."

"If things had been different, maybe we'd have met," he mused, "At the Circle, I mean."

"Perhaps, though it hardly matters now." She studied him carefully, then continued, "I'm glad that it worked out the way it did, though." She stopped herself before she said something incredibly stupid, sentimental, and inappropriate. "All right, we'd better head off before Sten gets frustrated with the delay and takes over."

* * *

"There it is, the Circle Tower." Jowan's voice was flat, his face twisted into a grimace, as they reached— and paused at— the point of the dirt path just before it dipped down toward the shoreline. Kester's boat swayed, rhythmically knocking against the docks where it was tied. Off in the distance, the tower was barely visible through the mist, like a spirit rising up from the lake. Lorelei could almost make out its shape: the wider, fortified lower section and the line of the tower rising up from it, making it look like a fist with one finger extended— or, as one particular mage had once pointed out, the particular part of the male anatomy that the gesture had been meant to signify.

"Do you see the tower? The view from the top must be spectacular!"

"Do you ever wonder why the mages built their tower at Lake Calenhad? Do they have an aversion to practicality or something?" Lorelei turned around, mouth opened to respond to Alistair's question, when Sten made a derisive noise in his throat.

"Humans over-compensating as always." She almost choked as she realised what Sten was referencing, but managed to— barely— keep her giggles in check.

"Whatever do you mean?" Leliana was very good at feigning emotion, but the slight hint of laughter around the eyes gave away the lie of her innocent expression. Alistair looked undecided between confusion and disgust, but he was slowly turning bright red, right to the tips of his ears. Jowan was staring helplessly at Lorelei and Connor was looking from one face to the other, trying to figure out what the adults were so worked up about.

Lorelei knew when she was defeated, and was quickly reduced to helpless giggles. She slid to the ground, holding her stomach until the giggles gave way to hiccoughs, and then to gasps. She did not know when, exactly, Jowan had joined her; when she was able to look up again, she found him holding his middle and leaning on a the wall of the inn for support.

"Now this is something that don't happen everyday," a grayed man stepped forward, voice gravelly from age and frequent drink and back bent from a long life as a ferryman. Lorelei rubbed the tears from her eyes, accepted Alistair's hand up and stepped forward to speak with Kester. "I was in the middle of me breakfast, but I had to come see what all this ruckus was. Old Kester's seen everyone who passed through here, and not a one of them did so laughing— at least not like that."

"Well met, Kester," her voice cracked slightly, still strained from laughing, and she winced. Kester only smiled.

"I remember you— you were part of that lot sent to Ostagar." He squinted as he studied the rest of the group, "Maybe my mind is going, but this doesn't look like them at all."

"It isn't," she said softly, "I'm a Grey Warden now. This is Alistair," she tilted her head slightly to indicate Alistair, "And this— Connor, come here." Connor approached with obvious trepidation, and Kester, having met many in his position, studied him for a moment before making a whistling sound in his teeth.

"Oh, girl, you're making history all over the place!" He looked an inch away from laughter, "This is the first time an apprentice ever got here with a _Grey Warden_ escort!" Connor placed himself beside Lorelei and stared up at her, then at Kester, then at the lake.

"Kester is the ferryman, Connor," Lorelei kept her tone conversational, as she rested a hand on the boy's shoulder. "We'll be taking his boat across to the Tower."

"The boat will not hold all of us." Lorelei turned to Sten, head inclined to affirm and acknowledge his statement.

"We will not all be going," she said, "Alistair, Connor and I will proceed to the Tower while the rest of you stay at the inn and wait for us." Jowan was staring at her, his expression a blinding mix of hope and fear. Lorelei turned her attention to Kester, relieved to find nothing more and nothing less than she expected on the craggy old face. "You said that you were in the middle of breakfast. I don't want to inconvenience you, so..." Kester laughed.

"I should've known that you'd be the one to let me finish a meal before dragging me and Lissy— that's me boat— over to the Tower." Alistair looked like he was about to ask a question; it was as likely Lorelei's sharp look that shut his mouth as the sudden gust of foul-smelling air from off Lake Calenhad.

"What is that smell?"

"That's the lake," Kester said matter-of-factly, "I imagine that there's all sorts of nasty things in that water, what with all the potions and whatnot that them mages are throwing in it all the time." Sten glared at Lorelei as if she were the sole cause of his discomfort. After a moment, he shifted that same gaze on Jowan, judging from the way the apostate stepped back and glanced at Lorelei as if expecting to be murdered. When Sten grunted and headed toward the inn, Lorelei spread her hands in a gesture of helplessness, but secretly, she found it a little amusing. Spearing them both with that look for roughly the same amount of time was probably the Qunari's way of being _fair_.

"So," Kester said smoothly as Leliana herded Jowan into the inn after Sten, "Shall I let you know when I'm ready to be off?"

"Yes, please, Kester." She glanced up at the hill, then to Alistair and Connor. "Please tell Alistair. Connor, could you stay with Alistair in the inn? I need to talk to Jowan alone."

"Jowan?" Kester cackled, and Lorelei winced, "I thought that was him. I never forget a face."

"Yes, it's Jowan, but— Kester, he won't be going back to the Tower just yet." Kester's wispy grey eyebrows would have reached his hairline but for the fact that it wasn't where it used to be. "He's— it's Grey Warden business." She thought it was a lame excuse, but the ferryman accepted it easily.

"Of course. I won't say anything, and I doubt any of those bucket heads will think to ask Old Kester." Kester made a spinning motion beside his head, and Lorelei had to smile, a little— Kester's cheer was infectious, and his distaste for the more 'enthusiastic' templars— the ones that thought nothing of abusing the apprentices they brought back or being downright nasty to Kester himself— was well known. "I won't lie to that Greagoir, though," he added, cheer disappearing, "I don't think he'll ask, but if he does— the Knight-Commander is a good man, even if he is a bit stodgy." Lorelei nodded.

"All I ask is that you don't mention him," she said softly, "That goes for the two of you, too." Connor frowned, eyebrows knitting together, and she knelt to bring herself down to his eye-level. "Jowan is in a lot of trouble with the Circle," she explained, "And I can't really put him under the protection of the Grey Wardens unless the Commander agrees— and I can't ask the Commander until I get back to Ostagar— and I don't want you and Kester to get in trouble for it, either." After a moment, Connor nodded.

"So the little whingy bugger was never here," Kester said lightly, and Lorelei coughed, but managed not to laugh. Alistair was not quite so successful, but he at least managed to avoid the spectacle that she and Jowan had created moments before. "All right. I'm off to finish me breakfast and I'll tell your man here when the boat's ready."

"So," Alistair stretched out the vowel, much like he usually did, "Out of all our— companions— you chose to take _me_ with you to see the mages? Are you sure that's wise? I mean... mages just _love_ me."

"I chose you because you're the least likely to offend the templars," she answered simply, and with a little shrug, "You're also the senior Grey Warden. If I just walked in, Connor in tow, and _claimed_ to be a Grey Warden— I don't imagine they'd let me walk out again."

"That— actually makes a lot of sense," Alistair seemed surprised, and she raised her eyebrows at him. "You're really smart, you know that? Hm."

"Not smart enough to be inside, where it's warm and doesn't smell," she answered, gesturing to Connor, who was shivering and trying to hide it, even in his fine travelling cloak.

"Point taken," the senior Grey Warden said, and with that, he scooped up the boy and started towards the inn, with her close behind, thinking that sprinting up the stairs in the Tower had been good for something, after all.

* * *

Jowan glanced at the door again, and Lorelei sighed, wondering if this was how an animal looked when cornered by hunters. She leaned forward in the chair, ignoring the wobble, and Jowan leaned back, hips thrusting forward in an attempt to keep him from falling all the way into a prone position on the bed— an attempt that failed, with a whispering sound as the air between his back and the bed rushed out from his sides. Lorelei stood, then reached over, grabbed Jowan's clasped hands and pulled him back up, noticing that his knuckles were white and his arms so tense that the muscles protested even that slight change in position.

All for a conversation that she'd fumbled, right from the start— with the grim opening of we need to talk to the blunt, admittedly not-so-thought-out _when exactly did you start using blood magic_?

"Jowan," she began again, "I need to know what I'm walking into when I go back to the Circle, and later— when I try to convince the Commander to protect you— I need to know for and from _what_."

"How did you know?" She almost rolled her eyes at that, stopped herself, and then thought— well, why the Fade not— and rolled them anyway.

"Jowan, do you not remember your first evening at camp with us?" Spots of pink began to form and darken on his cheeks, and Lorelei rolled her eyes again for good measure. "You had scars from self-inflicted cuts on your hands and wrists and arms. Did you think they magically disappeared, or that I healed them without noticing them? Maker's breath, Jowan, the rumour was that I was without emotions, not without _intelligence_." The apostate unclasped his hands and held out his arms, examining them and finding smooth white skin.

"I— actually hadn't noticed that they were gone," he admitted, tracing his fingers where the longest of those scars had been— the middle of his left palm, where Lorelei thought he might have pierced it with a dagger, as there had been a corresponding scar on the back of his hand. Lorelei waited several seconds for him to come out of his memories, and when he didn't, she clapped her hands and his head snapped up, eyes wide.

"I am sorry, Jowan," she made sure that her voice was gentled, like it had been when dealing with Connor's nightmares, "But there isn't much time, and it is important that I know."

"I met a girl," he began hesitantly, "An initiate named Lily." Though she closed her eyes in dismay, she gestured for him to continue. "She helped me escape, helped me destroy my phylactery, along with— but Greagoir and Irving were waiting with a group of Templars. They were going to arrest Lily for helping me, and take her to the Aeonar. I used blood magic to protect her, but after— she said— blood magic was evil, and that she didn't know me any more." He was tracing the imaginary scar on his palm again, and he ducked his head, hiding behind a curtain of dark hair, but Lorelei could hear the pain in his voice. It was a more believable story than the one he'd spun them in the dungeons of Redcliffe Castle, where he'd escaped alone and somehow evaded the pursuing Templars. Lorelei almost pointed out that he'd lied to her, and wondered if stating the obvious as if it were something esoteric and new were a disease, spread by hearing the infected speak.

"So you learned blood magic at the Circle," she winced, realising that her effort from seconds before seemed to have been for naught. A growing feeling of dread in the pit of her stomach had forced her to make the clarification, obvious as it was. Blood magic within the Circle... it was not pleasant to think of when it was a single mage, working alone, but when it was more...

Lorelei forced herself to focus on Jowan's guilt-ridden face, and met his eyes squarely. She tried to raise her voice above a whisper, failed, then made herself say the words that would force her down a path from which she might not be able to return.

"Jowan, you need to tell me everything— every where, every when, every _who_ , everything that you know." She had never joined the majority in thinking Jowan stupid, or lacking in magical potential, but Jowan had always been a follower. It was part of why his solo escape story had rung false to her; Jowan _never_ did anything significant alone.

As he haltingly told her everything, as she'd demanded, she felt cracked open, drained dry— then filled up again with dread. By the time he'd finished, she realised that if she was going to experience anger this often, having Alistair holy smite her every time was not going to cut it as an anger management strategy.

* * *

"I'm sorry to have kept you waiting, Kester," Lorelei felt heavy from the conversation with Jowan, and she could tell by the worried expressions on the faces of Leliana, Kester, and most prominently, Alistair and Connor, that she had yet to become skilled at hiding her discomfort.

"This pretty lady has been keeping us distracted with stories," Kester explained, and Lorelei did her best to ignore the barest hint of a leer in his expression as he looked toward Leliana. The red-haired woman didn't seem to mind, overmuch, and Kester didn't appear to have actually said or done anything untoward. "I'd hardly felt the wait at all."

"Thank you, Leliana."

"Are you sure that you couldn't take me with you? I've never seen inside a mages' tower..." Lorelei winced, shaking her head.

"I'm sorry, Leliana— I need you here with Sten and Jowan." Leliana would keep Jowan from pestering Sten with questions, and which would keep Sten from wringing the apostate's skinny white neck. She paused, thinking, "Jowan has lived in the Tower almost all of his life— I am sure that he will answer any questions that you have." _That_ would keep both Leliana and Jowan busy, and though he'd have to endure their chatter, she was sure that Sten would be grateful not to be the target of it. Leliana was already brightening at the prospect, and Lorelei was relieved.

They were settled in the boat, and Leliana was faded into a waving, red-topped figure before Lorelei looked at Alistair, who was watching her with an odd expression. The moment was broken when Kester started cackling.

"You don't change much," he said, leaning into the oars as he propelled the boat toward its goal, "Even as a child..."

"Even as a child, what?" Alistair asked, eagerness bathing his face and overflowing in waves in front of him as he leaned forward slightly. Lorelei glanced at Connor and held back a groan— while not as brightly eager as Alistair, he was noticeably curious. "Do you remember when Lorelei arrived at the Tower?"

"Do I remember?" Kester grinned, teeth flashing yellow, "Of course I remember. Old Kester never forgets a face!"

"What was she like?" Connor asked tentatively, encouraged by Alistair, but glancing at Lorelei for approval.

"Much as she is now— smaller," he amended, "Not that she's got any substance now. I've seen the shipments, and I know they feed you lot in the Tower, but—" Kester frowned at her, then returned to his story with relish, "I see lots of young folk that are brought to the tower, in various company and condition. This one—" he jerked his head in her direction, "Poised and polite as you can be, a bit on the timid side— that's not unusual— and accompanied by a priest, a mage, and a templar." Kester laughed again, as if he'd said something particularly ribald. "Usually it's just templars that take the new ones here, so I remembered it special. Full of questions, not that I understood any of them, until they was translated for me— she asked me my name, and how I was, and said she was pleased to meet me, and 'Thank you for taking me across the lake, Ser Kester'. Ser Kester! I'll say that she was the first of anyone to call Old Kester 'Ser'." He laughed again. Lorelei had turned away to look over the lake as he told the story, but she jerked back suddenly as Connor Guerrin asked a question.

"What did you mean— you didn't understand?"

"Well, she was speaking that frilly language—" Kester shrugged, shifting the oars and sending a small tremor through the boat. "Orlesian, or whatsit, like that pretty redhead at the docks."

Lorelei fought the urge to hide her face with her hands as Connor turned a confused and surprised expression on her.

"You speak Orlesian?" Kester laughed.

"Didn't speak nothing else at first," he pointed out, drawing a sympathetic wince out of Alistair.

"You're Orlesian? Like my mother?" She wasn't entirely sure how to handle the question, so she bit her lip. A glance at Alistair, whose head was moving back and forth, told her that she was on her own.

"Not quite like your mother," she said slowly; Alistair's eyebrows rose at that, and she glared at him. No, she wasn't about to tell Connor that her mother was a bitch and she wasn't! "I wasn't noble-born, Connor. I was raised by the Chantry even before I showed magical talent." The young, soon-to-be apprentice nodded, understanding. She considered having some words with Alistair, then dismissed the idea. It wasn't like he'd said anything, and his opinion of Isolde was hardly unjustified.

"Hah!" Kester grinned at her, and she shook her head before he could make the next comment that she just _knew_ , somehow, was on his tongue. He shrugged, but said nothing, and she was immensely grateful. She did not want to get into a discussion about her heritage in any shape or form.

"Well, here we are!" Kester paused to wave at the templars who came out of the Tower to meet their visitors, and when they waved back, Lorelei echoed the gesture. She knew that Greagoir tried to keep the friendlier templars on dock-duty, but it wasn't something that she intended to take for granted.


	7. Degrees of Misdirection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor is brought to the Circle, Alistair checks in, the party is attacked, and Lorelei admits to a rare ability.

"Welcome to the Circle of Magi," Lorelei immediately recognized the voice and grinned over her shoulder at Alistair as the templar took her hand to help her out of the boat. In most cases, it was difficult to tell templars apart when they wore their helms (or buckets, as some would call them) but this particular templar had been kind to her when so few had, even among the mages' ranks.

"Well met, Ser Yves." The templar froze abruptly to take a second look at her, and were it not for Alistair's quick reflexes, she would have tripped and fallen into the water.

"I am sorry, I didn't recognize you at first," he said sheepishly, before reaching around to grasp both her elbows, lift her clear out of the boat, and swing her to shore. "You aren't due to return from Ostagar." She could hear his frown as he peered around her, taking in Alistair and Connor as the former lifted the latter out of the boat and put him down on dry land, much the same way that Yves had Lorelei.

"I'm here on official business," she said, "Alistair, this is Ser Yves— Ser Yves, this is Alistair, a Grey Warden, and Connor." She paused, considering, "Alistair and I have come at the behest of the Commander of the Grey Wardens in Ferelden, and Connor has come to join the Circle as an apprentice." Yves whistled.

"You should probably tell him that you're a Grey Warden, too," Connor said helpfully, earning a sharp look from the templar, who then turned that look on Lorelei.

"It's true," she admitted, spreading her hands, then letting them fall back to her sides as the other templar straightened. She frowned. "Your comrade is a bit jumpy."

"Yes," Yves reached up and removed his helmet, fixing Lorelei with a grave expression, "Some bad business, that. He was guarding the door when a blood mage escaped— never saw the attack coming. It was an ugly business all around, that." Lorelei nodded, hand automatically rising to cover her mouth. Yves knelt down in front of Connor, who shied away but didn't flee. "So you've just discovered that you have magic, have you?" The boy glanced at Lorelei before nodding. "Well, this is the place for you." Lorelei grinned at Alistair— if she'd been able to choose which templar Connor met first as an apprentice, she couldn't have wished for better than Yves. He could be large and terrifying, or he could be gentle as a lamb— and, well, still large, but there wasn't any helping that. Yves rose and gestured to his partner, who hit the door with his fist.

"Come," Yves said finally, "Let's get the boy settled and see about your 'official business', little eavesdropper." Lorelei knew she was blushing, and she knew that ducking her head only drew Alistair's attention, but it was done before she could stop herself. Shifting uncomfortably, she gestured to Connor and Alistair, and led the way toward the big doors that she'd been through only twice before.

She heard Connor telling Alistair that he liked Ser Yves, and smiled, and tried not to think about what kind of trouble was brewing inside the stone fortress that had been her home— and into which kind of fire she was throwing young Connor Guerrin.

* * *

Lorelei braced herself, straightening until her chin was just about level with Alistair's breastplate.

The First Enchanter and Knight-Commander arrived together, as was to be expected— Irving and Greagoir may have spent a great deal of time at each others' throats, but Lorelei had long suspected that they were inseparable, in their own way. To say that her appearance by Alistair's side surprised them would have been a massive understatement— both Irving and Greagoir were speechless for several moments.

"Greetings, First Enchanter, Knight-Commander." She copied Alistair as he bowed forward slightly, crossing his arms over his chest, "This is my comrade, Alistair." She gestured appropriately, and avoided making the reverse introductions, figuring that Alistair would instantly understand that the man wearing robes was the First Enchanter, and the other— wearing plate— was the Knight-Commander, especially since he would have met both in his previous life as a templar-in-training. "We come with news from the south, and a request for more mages to aid in defending the land against the Blight."

"Request?" Greagoir was the first to recover from the shock of seeing Lorelei, and while he clearly believed the word to be in error, he didn't seem angry about it. In fact... "I tire of the Grey Wardens' constant demands for troops," he continued, seeming every bit as weary as he claimed to be, "...But it is their right, I suppose. I gather that the mages that we've sent are insufficient?"

"Has something happened?" Irving stepped forward, concern evident on his face. "Why were you sent with the Grey Warden? We were told that two Grey Wardens..." Lorelei knew that the First Enchanter did not gain his position by being unobservant, and the fact that he was so hesitant to believe that she was a Grey Warden stung— but just a little. She knew that she'd been hardly remarkable as an apprentice; had someone told her that she'd be recruited into a legendary order of warriors, she'd've laughed.

"Lorelei is a Grey Warden, just as I am," Alistair said helpfully, and Lorelei almost laughed at the disbelief on Irving's face.

"If it makes it easier to believe," Lorelei added, in her most even tone, "I was not recruited for raw power." Though a good deal of Duncan's interest had been because she _had_ somehow taken down an ogre, almost entirely on her own, she didn't think it necessary to confuse the issue, and any claim she made to such a level of power would be met with an accusation of blood magic.

"Well," the First Enchanter was looking at her, appraising her, but it was different from the way she was used to— more akin to the way one would look at a new, powerful weapon than to the way one would look at a person who had exceeded expectations. It made her uncomfortable; she had never liked the idea of being a player's piece in someone's complex strategy.

"Who is this?" Greagoir gestured toward Connor, still under the protective shadow of Ser Yves. Irving, following the gesture, immediately zeroed in on the child.

"Is this— a new apprentice? Come here, child." Connor ignored Irving and instead looked to Lorelei, who noticed a pointed look between First Enchanter and Knight-Commander. Lorelei beckoned the boy over, and he came slowly, and casting nervous glances around— his eyes went from Alistair to Yves to Greagoir to the exit to anywhere but Irving, then to Irving, then landing on Lorelei and staying there. He stopped at her side, nearly hiding in the folds of her robe. Gently, and not without a hesitation of her own, Lorelei put her hands on Connor's shoulders and guided him in front of her.

"Connor, this is the First Enchanter and the Knight-Commander of the Circle of Magi, here at the Tower." Connor was still looking up at her, so she smiled and lifted her chin in the direction of first Irving, then Greagoir. "Irving, Greagoir, this is Connor."

"I was not aware that escorting mage-children to the Circle was a Grey Warden duty," Greagoir said dryly.

"We felt it best that Connor come here as soon as possible," Lorelei glanced at Alistair, then sighed, "All right, _I_ felt it best. I felt it unsafe to leave him where he was."

"Were there no templars in Redcliffe to perform this duty?" Lorelei felt Connor's shoulders stiffen under her hand, and she gave them a reassuring squeeze.

"This is— probably best discussed in private," she said carefully, "After Connor is safely settled. We've had a long journey, and he's— had enough of an ordeal."

"Very well," the Knight-Commander gestured to one of the templars, "Escort the boy to the apprentices' dormitories."

"I want to stay with you," Connor said, twisting out of her grip so that he could grab handfuls of her robes. Lorelei flinched, then, with some effort, managed to get her robes out of the boy's fists and his thin wrists in her hands. She knelt in front of him, keenly aware of the attention of the room on her.

"You know that I can't stay here," she used her gentlest voice, the one that used to coax the ratters toward her so that she could scratch behind their ears, "I'm a Grey Warden; it's too dangerous for you to come with me. Besides, you've so much to learn that I can't teach you. I'm just barely out of my apprenticeship and you've not even begun yours." Connor was trembling, but it was a subtle thing— he was humming with fear, and the Fade was beginning to respond. She could hear the shift of armour as every templar in the room readied a cleanse or a smite. "Connor, breathe— remember what I showed you." The boy took first one breath, then another, and another, each one slower and deeper than the last, until his magic settled, and the mood in the room right along with it. "Good." She glanced up at Greagoir and Irving, then quickly away. They looked entirely too surprised— hadn't she overheard them considering her for an eventual mentoring position?

"I don't want you to go," Connor said finally, calm enough to speak without his voice breaking, but agitated enough that his fingers would leave angry red marks on her wrists. "What if the bad lady comes back?"

"Connor," she fought to keep her own breathing slow and steady at the way the tension in the room ratcheted to the very high ceilings, "This tower is filled with all sorts of experts about magic. Chances are, if there is something that you need to know, someone here knows it— and if they don't, they know someone who does." Or it's something that is so illegal that knowing it will mean losing your emotions or your life, but she didn't say that, being as she didn't want the child to panic. "You will do well here. There are lots of people just like you, or people who were just like you."

"You promise?" She almost laughed at the innocence of the question.

"They can promise," she indicated Greagoir and Irving, and to her surprise, Connor made a face.

"I don't know them— their promises don't mean anything. I'm asking _you_." Somewhere beside her, Alistair made a strangled noise in his throat, and Lorelei swallowed. This was— she suddenly realised just how out of depth she was, and when she glanced up at the Knight-Commander and First Enchanter, Irving was staring at her like she'd grown two extra heads and Greagoir was smirking at Irving, which might have been funny if it hadn't been _completely unhelpful_. She sighed, then met Connor's eyes.

"All right, then Connor. I'm promising you, and _they_ are promising _me_." He tilted his head as he thought it out, then he grinned.

"Okay." He released his death grip on her hands and she promptly hid her wrists while he was led away. When he was gone, she rose to her feet, studied her bruised wrists. She shrugged, and a simple cantrip later her bruises were swiftly disappeared.

"I did not realise that you had such a gift with children," the First Enchanter said finally, the hint of a smile on his lips.

"It should come in handy, what with being a Grey Warden and all," Alistair piped up. Greagoir had him deflated in short order with a simple look; Lorelei wondered if she could learn to do that— not to Alistair, but to others. She imagined that Sten would be impressed.

"Shall we proceed to my study?" Lorelei glanced at Alistair who, still slightly cowed by Greagoir's fierce stare, nodded mutely.

"Of course, First Enchanter," she said finally, trying— and not succeeding— to summon a smile. It seemed like she was forgiven for her failing, however, since no one else seemed able to manage one, either. Irving turned gracefully on his heel and lead the way toward his study, with Greagoir pointedly taking up the rear.

Lorelei tried to keep her back straight and her shoulders back as she followed close behind Alistair, as keenly aware of Greagoir's eyes on the back of her neck as she would be had he held a blade there, poised to strike. She forced herself not to look back and check if he was doing exactly that.

* * *

"So, the templars? In Redcliffe?" Brusque as always, the Knight-Commander brought them back to the point as soon as the door to the First Enchanter's study was closed. Lorelei winced.

"All of the templars who were at Redcliffe are dead, Knight-Commander," Greagoir's face seemed to expand in her vision, and Lorelei was struck with the image of the Knight-Commander's head blowing up like an angry red bubble with a face and floating above his headless body. It wasn't a pretty image, and she had to look away before it would fade from her mind.

"There was a demon at Redcliffe Castle," Alistair said hastily, picking up the narrative as soon as it became clear that she would not continue, "It killed most of the castle staff, reanimated the corpses and set them upon the village. By the time we arrived, seeking an audience with the Arl, very few citizens and even fewer knights remained."

"With the aid of Bann Teagan, come from Rainesfere to inquire after his brother and stayed to defend the people, we managed to breach the castle and confront the demon," Lorelei, recovered from her moment of complete insanity, managed to take up her part of the story once more.

"After we slogged through that lot of the risen dead."

"Yes," Lorelei could tell that they were giving the impression of excited children telling tall tales, but it wasn't to be helped, "The demon was in possession of a mage— a child, tricked only because he lacked any knowledge of what he faced. During a confrontation, the demon drew me into the Fade. I believe that I destroyed it. When I returned, the child had returned to his senses and showed no signs of demonic influence that I could discern."

"The child— is the boy that you brought here," Irving concluded, and Lorelei nodded— and was almost amused to see that Alistair offered a slightly more enthusiastic version of her own gesture.

"Like I said, he has been through an ordeal."

"I imagine," Greagoir said dryly.

"I am sure that you understand why I felt it safer to bring him directly to the Tower," Greagoir was nodding, but Irving's eyes were narrowed slightly, the only blemish in his jovial demeanor.

"What a horrible experience for a child," he said smoothly, "It is fortunate that you were able to save him. He seems to have become quite attached to you."

"He recognized me from the Fade as the one who had defeated the demon." As had Eamon, but that was neither here nor there, so she didn't mention it. "He had been showing signs of magical talent for some time, but his mother was— reluctant to have him taken by the Chantry, and had decided for him to learn in secret. As you know, studies in magic not guided by a qualified tutor are incredibly dangerous. I felt it important that he begin his apprenticeship as soon as possible."

"And you saw fit to begin teaching him yourself." Lorelei stared at the First Enchanter for a few moments before she was able to compose her thoughts. The hint of annoyance in Irving's tone confused her.

"I taught him a simple breathing exercise, to help him relax— and sleep," she said finally, "And I answered as many of his questions as completely as I could. That is all." As if satisfied by her answer, Irving nodded, confusing her further. She wondered if she'd ever understand the First Enchanter's twisty mannerisms.

"And his mother? I don't imagine that a woman willing to hide her child from the Chantry would easily release him, even to a Grey Warden." Lorelei winced, and noticed that Alistair did the same. Greagoir raised an eyebrow and waited for an answer to his question.

"That was— not pretty," Alistair admitted, glancing at Lorelei as if in apology. "I'm actually not sure how she managed to convince Isolde to let us take Connor, to be honest." She sighed— some help he was.

"Wait a moment," Greagoir held up a steel-clad hand, "Surely I misheard you. Did you say Isolde? As in, _Arlessa_ _Isolde_ of Redcliffe?" Irving had folded his arms over his chest, and was watching with interest— and perhaps, _amusement_. "You brought us _Connor_ _Guerrin_?"

"Yes, Knight-Commander," Lorelei's voice squeaked. It actually squeaked, and she felt as much like a mouse as she sounded like one. She felt like a mouse about to get stepped on by a large metal boot. She wondered briefly if there was any avoiding it— probably not.

It was then that the First Enchanter began to chuckle, drawing Greagoir's ire away from Alistair and Lorelei and toward Irving himself.

"It sounds," Irving said deliberately, "Like there is significantly more to the story than first appeared." Lorelei managed a thin, tired smile. Of course, they'd completely left out Jowan, but she was not about to succumb to the automatic flash of guilt that the First Enchanter's words brought about. She wondered if even that had been trained into her, from the moment she'd arrived at the Tower, and then dismissed the thought. It had been trained into her since _birth_. Such a reaction was the side-effect of being raised to be subservient, and she was no more a pawn at the Circle than she would have been of the Chantry had she remained in Jader.

"There is something else," she had originally planned to warn Irving about Uldred, but at some point since her arrival— and for some reason that she could not quite define— she had changed her mind. "About the reinforcements for Ostagar."

"We will begin to marshall our forces immediately, and will head to Ostagar shortly," Irving seemed confused, as if the topic had been covered completely, and a quick glance at Alistair told her that he wasn't sure what she was doing, but that he would— as she was beginning to expect— follow her lead. "I do not know what else needs to be discussed."

"If I could have a moment alone, First Enchanter?" The Knight-Commander was already on his guard, but Lorelei made herself look as small and innocent as she could manage. She did not have to be any great liar to be believeable, either, not to those who expected her to be both. The twinge of guilt she felt for deceiving Greagoir— Irving was looking at her with a cunning that she'd long suspected, but never been allowed to witness directly— was out of a genuine respect for the man, and she suspected that it would stay with her for some time.

"Very well," Greagoir said finally, with a look that told her that he was suspicious, but would trust her until she gave him solid reason not to— solid reason that he would look for, of course. "I will wait outside." Lorelei turned to Alistair and, when she gestured for him to follow the Knight-Commander, his face twisted into a grimace of disbelief. She mouthed the word 'later' to him— and felt horrible because it would be _much later_ — and he reluctantly followed Greagoir, carefully closing the door behind him. Lorelei took a deep breath, steadying herself before she turned to face the First Enchanter. She wasn't sure if it would work, but if she was going to pull this off, she would have to do everything _just so_ , and if she'd failed, she'd have hurt Alistair's feelings and made a potential enemy for nothing.

"Now, what is it that you wished to discuss, without your fellow Grey Warden?" Irving was smiling, but not in a nice way, "I suppose that this matter is not official Warden business."

"It isn't," Lorelei admitted, smiling sheepishly. When she looked down, she realised that she was tracing a line in her palm, right where Jowan's scar had been.

"So what is it that I can do for you, child?" She didn't miss the significance of what could easily have been simple endearment; Irving was suggesting that she was a child, playing at a game for adults. He was right, but she had, what she hoped, would be a winning move. She took a breath, straightened, and for the second time in as many nights, spoke words that would turn lives upside-down.

"When Alistair and I quit the tower, I want Anders to leave with us." She realised then how the rumours of her being secretly made Tranquil had taken hold: her voice was flat, and the inflection was so sparing that an ineperienced ear might make the same mistake, if they weren't paying enough attention. Before the First Enchanter could indulge his urge to laugh at her ridiculous demand, she used the information that Jowan had given her. It was a test that she hoped that the First Enchanter would pass: if what Jowan had told her was untrue, Irving would laugh, she would admit to having paid too much attention to a rumour, and she would leave with some of her childhood still intact.

"If you do not allow Alistair and I to leave with Anders, I will tell the Knight-Commander about Uldred, and about the apprentices you intentionally set up to learn, use, and be caught and sentenced as independent practitioners of the forbidden art of blood magic."

To her growing disappointment, the First Enchanter did not laugh. In the silence that stretched between them, growing more tense as time passed, Lorelei realised that what Jowan had told her about Uldred and the First Enchanter— and likely more— had been the truth.

She found a sudden need for the very same breathing exercises that she'd taught Connor as the Fade twisted around her, and as she employed them, her anger gave way and was replaced with an all consuming sorrow. The Circle Tower had been her home for so many years that she'd taken its safety for granted. That Irving did not attempt to deny the charge, instead inquiring as to her evidence, incensed her further— leading her to ask if Greagoir would be inclined to believe him without an investigation, and if he was sure that such an investigation would turn out to be fruitless.

She had known, as soon as she'd decided to pursue it, that winning this argument would be more costly than losing it, but the imagination was never quite equal to reality— even if Jowan was right, and for her, it was closer than even most mages. When Irving finally aquiesced, she knew that she would never be able to return to the Tower, no matter the saying that the Circle never forgot its apprentices. She also knew that the First Enchanter would never refer to her as 'child' again, and her earlier annoyance at just that evaporated at the realisation.

She allowed herself to be led to the large doors, protests from Greagoir and Alistair becoming assorted bits of noise joining the activity around her like a colourful storm with her at its center. The prisoner— a man in torn, filthy robes with six escapes under his belt— was fetched and the three of them were ushered out the doors and onto Kester's little green boat, all without Lorelei offering more than a blank, empty stare in response.

They neared the docks on the opposite shore by the time Lorelei began to respond to her surroundings, and she found that without her influence, Anders and Alistair had already become fast friends, trading names and jokes and— surprisingly— concern for her.

It was not until that moment, when she glanced up at the faces of the men with her, that she wondered why she had asked for Anders, and not for Neria.

* * *

"Not to sound ungrateful or anything," Anders said lazily, fingers tracing the stitching on the sleeve of his new robe, "But why did you spring me, what did I get signed up for and how in the Fade did you manage it?" Lorelei shrugged her pack onto her shoulder, holding for a moment to let the weight settle.

"I'm curious about that myself," Alistair added, pausing beside Lorelei and glancing over his shoulder where Leliana and Sten were ushering Jowan out of the inn. They had stayed long enough to furnish Anders with a much needed bath and change of clothes, but with most of the day still ahead of them (Maker help them) Lorelei had decided that it was best that they not linger, should the First Enchanter change his mind or the Knight-Commander decide that it was worth risking Irving's wrath to send templars after them.

"I blackmailed the First Enchanter."

"You _what_?"

"Andraste's flaming knickers, is that _Jowan_?" Alistair and Anders glanced at each other before looking back at her, both expecting to be answered first.

"I blackmailed the First Enchanter," she repeated, sounding far calmer than she felt, "And yes, Anders, that is Jowan." The blonde mage whistled appreciatively, eyeing Jowan as he made his way toward Lorelei, his expression similar to Alistair's.

"You brought _Anders_? How did you get them to agree to that?" Lorelei was beginning to get a little tired of repeating herself, so she stayed quiet. She wasn't sure whether to be grateful or annoyed that Anders filled the silence.

"Wow, Jowan, I never would have believed it," Anders took in Sten and Leliana, "Destroyed your phylactery, escaped the Circle _and_ managed to hook up with such lovely company. I almost want to shake your hand— except for the whole _blood mage_ thing." Leliana jumped slightly to the side, regarding Jowan with a shocked expression, and Jowan studied his feet.

"All right, that's it," Alistair crossed the distance between himself and Lorelei with surprising speed, and took hold of her arm, "We're going to have a talk. Right now." He led her toward the lake, with her struggling just to keep up. His grip on her arm was so tight that she expected to find bruises there later, but not so tight that she suspected him of hurting her intentionally.

"Can we talk about this later?" He was already shaking his head, and she knew that he was digging his heels in, and that any further attempt to dissuade him would result in a rift between them— one that would be near impossible to repair.

"No," he said, crossing his arms, "I've had enough of this. I am the Senior Warden here and you will tell me what _in the Maker's name_ is going on." Lorelei blinked, surprised. This was the first time Alistair had really asserted himself in her presence, and she found that as inconvenient as it was— she was proud of him.

So, in a very low, very careful voice, she told him what she believed was going on at the Circle, and why she believed it.

* * *

"So we just left Connor—" Alistair hadn't spoken to her since he'd dragged her to the lake, and she was grateful that he'd chosen to break the oppressive, tense silence between them, even if it had taken until their camp was set up and the sky was dark for him to do so.

"Connor should be fine," she countered quickly, "He's too young to be used in that way, though I could see the First Enchanter— or someone in the Chantry— trying to gain the ear of his parents." Alistair nodded, though he didn't look entirely convinced. He was right not to be; there were many ways that a child could be used as leverage, and Lorelei was beginning to wonder just how far Irving and his ilk were willing to go.

"And Jowan— a _blood mage_!— why are you so keen on helping him?" She winced. She wasn't sure if she and Alistair would ever see eye to eye on Jowan. Anders was an admitted apostate, but his easy, irreverent humour and open scorn for blood magic was beginning to win the former templar over— Jowan had never possessed that kind of charm any more than he'd possessed the raw power of some of the First Enchanter's favourite apprentices. "I mean— he's a _blood mage_."

"I did hear you the first time, Alistair," she said slowly, and he gave her a look of sheepish apology. Lorelei sighed, "Jowan and I were never friends, as I have said before. He's made a lot of mistakes— big ones, yes— and Maker knows that he doesn't have particularly good judgement, but I just can't shake the feeling that he was set up to fail, right from the beginning. He's a— he's a person, Alistair, and I can't—" She threw up her hands in frustration. "I don't know that I can ever explain myself, but here's me trying: I didn't think Sten deserved to starve to death or eventually be torn apart by darkspawn, and he murdered a whole family. Jowan didn't kill anyone—"

"That you know of." Lorelei flinched, but continued.

"Jowan's choices were as follows: run, die or be made Tranquil. He learned blood magic because someone he trusted preyed on his insecurities and led him to believe that it would give him a fourth choice. That person set him up to be made an example of, right from the start."

"You're... sure?" Alistair was beginning to bend, a little, and she pushed further, finding that the changes she saw in him were even more profound in herself. She was more certain, harder somehow. She'd never wanted to be ignored, dismissed or made light of, but she'd grown to accept it. She was finding that she was no longer willing to accept her role as an observer of her own life.

"You know about the Harrowing, yes?" Alistair nodded, looking a bit green.

"I was at one once. The apprentice wasn't able to resist the demon. It was— horrible."

"What you may not know is that only apprentices deemed promising enough are allowed to attempt the test. The lyrium used for the ritual is too valuable to waste on those who are likely to fail, or make mediocre mages." She felt her mouth stretch into what might have been a smile, if Alistair's wince and her own feelings hadn't told her that it wasn't, "I only know this because very few in the tower were in the habit of noticing me, and I was in the habit of overhearing important information. I managed to— somehow— impress the Knight-Commander and First Enchanter enough for me to be allowed to attempt it, but Jowan— Jowan was always going to be made Tranquil, until Uldred and Irving decided that he'd make a convenient sacrifice." She was angry again, and had to stop for several moments to calm herself. She had a feeling that part of the goal was to create a permanent rift between Jowan and Neria, who Irving felt was being held back by her friend's slow progress. His efforts to make Jowan want Tranquility had failed; making it look like he _deserved_ it was the next best thing. Irving's favourite would be freed from the boy's influence and Jowan would be shuffled off somewhere, probably to Cumberland or Kirkwall to serve as a slave and add to the Chantry's coffers.

"But if you knew this before—"

"I didn't know about the blood magic until that first night at camp, and I wasn't sure that he'd learned it at the Tower until shortly before Kester took us across the lake," she corrected, "And— I honestly thought that the only reason they wanted to make Jowan Tranquil was to save his life, back when I first learned about it. I thought that they... well. I believed that those in charge wanted what was best for us. I was even willing to dismiss Jowan's whole story until Irving confirmed it— when I threatened to tell Greagoir about it, he didn't even deny it. He just gave me Anders."

"Why did you ask for Anders, anyway?"

"I wasn't sure at first," she almost laughed at the disbelief all over his face, "Now I think that I asked for him because I was absolutely sure that the First Enchanter wouldn't set him free, wouldn't risk the Chantry's wrath— unless it was true."

"I— I'm sorry," she glanced up at him, studying his stricken expression, then sighed.

"Not as sorry as I am," she said softly. Alistair suddenly straightened, armour clinking together at the violent movement as he jumped off the log and began to pace in front of the flames. "What is it?" When he turned to her, she was struck by his expression, twisted into a grimace of worry.

"I was just thinking— how are we going to explain this to Duncan?"

Lorelei had absolutely no idea.

* * *

"You are quite lovely, you know," Lorelei let out an inarticulate sound as the small bar of rough, homemade soap flew out of her hands and was carried away from the current too quickly for her to recover.

She let out a frustrated breath and left the water, glancing at the woman with the red hair while she dressed. She was less put off by her nudity than the other woman's comment on her body. She might have been more embarrassed if she hadn't grown up in the Tower— the templars were rarely actually present in the bathing areas— and never while they were being used— but it was hardly private; any apprentice that took too long in the bath could expect to be interrupted by someone else impatient for their turn. Truth be told, the loss of the soap was upsetting enough on its own to keep her from being too bothered by Leliana's open observation.

"You have such lovely little feet," The redhead continued, "They are wasted on these clunky shoes. In Orlais, you would be the envy of every noblewoman that I have ever met: you're so delicate, almost like an Elf!" Lorelei flinched, and knew immediately that there was no way that the other woman would miss her reaction. "Was it something that I said?"

"It's not your fault, Leliana," she said carefully, wringing her hair out over the ground and trying to avoid splashing too much on her robes. "I'm just tired."

"I did not mean to offend you," the other woman responded, "I know that I have, but I don't understand why." Lorelei watched Leliana disappear behind her eyelids as she allowed herself a steadying breath— then she opened them, found a rock by the water, and sat down, hands already parting her hair for her customary braid.

"I know that you mean well," her eyes wandered away from Leliana's earnest, confused face and to the water as she spoke, "But some of the things that you say— you think that they are compliments..."

"I don't understand." Lorelei sighed.

"Your compliments come from a place of ignorance, rather than malice," she explained, "But— you must understand that you are not in Orlais. What might be considered flattering to a courtier is insulting to a commoner."

"What do you mean?" Lorelei abandoned her braid and rubbed her temples, and finally faced Leliana again.

"The other day, you complemented Jowan on his soft hands," Leliana nodded cautiously, and Lorelei held out her hands for the woman to examine, "Mages always have soft hands; it's a consequence of being a part of the Circle." She watched the other woman's face; her lips parted slightly as she began to understand. "It comes out, not as a compliment, but as a reminder of the rigid roles that we are forced into at birth," Lorelei leaned forward, getting absorbed into the subject, "Mages don't like being reminded that they're not allowed to go out into the world, leaving their gilded cage of magic and books and fine clothes. Elves don't like being reminded that they are small and delicate and limited to lives as servants, prized for their beauty."

"And you said nothing! I am— so sorry," Leliana said, and Lorelei believed her— she looked absolutely stricken. "I had no idea."

"Of course you didn't," Lorelei said gently, "I don't really blame you— like I said: ignorance, not malice. It has just been— a very hard day." She shook her hair out, then began her braid again.

"Oh, let me— please," Leliana said, and Lorelei shrugged and let the other woman take over, fingers brushing against scalp, neck and ears while she established the braid. From the feeling of tug and pull, she knew that it wasn't quite the same as her customary style, but if it was a solid plait that kept her hair off her face, she'd be satisfied. "You do have such nice hair," Leliana said softly, "So soft and fine."

"When it's clean; of course, I haven't had many chances to care for it lately," Leliana made a noise of agreement.

"You seem to know a great deal about Orlais," Leliana mused, and Lorelei stiffened, "It was almost like you were speaking from a place of experience."

"I was," she admitted, trying not to move her head and ruin Leliana's work, "Most of what I know comes from books, of course, as I have been at the Circle Tower since I was young— but before I showed signs of magical talent, I lived at a chantry in Jader." The hands in her hair paused as their owner took in the new information.

"So you are Orlesian," she said finally, and Lorelei smiled mirthlessly— not that the other saw it, being behind her as she was. "I did not realise... oh! My comment before, about you being different from other Fereldans— I am so sorry."

" _C'est un compliment sur mon accent_." The thick braid fell against her back just before Leliana clapped her hands.

"Oh, _mais oui_!" Lorelei laughed, then stood and turned to face Leliana.

"I was never a noble," she said smoothly, "But Leliana, surely you understand that it's better that I—"

"Of course, I understand," the redhead matched her tone, note for note, "Fereldans are less friendly with Orlesians, yes?"

"They don't like being reminded of the occupation," Lorelei corrected, "Fereldans were not well-treated under Orlesian rule, which it would do you well to remember." Leliana was immediately contrite.

"Of course, I'm sorry." It was difficult not to _like_ Leliana, annoying as her romantic notions were sometimes. She seemed to genuinely desire to be a good person— and was willing to improve herself, even at a cost to her pride. It made her a rare kind of person.

Her open admiration for Lorelei still made the Orlesian-born mage question her sanity, but no one was perfect, right?

* * *

Lorelei had just rolled out of her bedroll when a blade split the side of her tent, tearing downward until it scraped against the dirt. Had she still been sleeping, it would have cut deep into her belly. The blade slid back, and Lorelei pulled her legs under her and thrust her arms out, fingers forming the required gesture for a stone fist spell. The magic responded instantly, and she heard a body grunt in pain and fall to the ground.

She struggled out of her tent to find the camp under attack. She spun, pulled her arms to her chest and then flung them out, sending a burst of energy outward. It knocked those immediately around her to the dirt, and gave her a few precious seconds to look around for her companions.

"We're under attack!" It was Alistair's voice that made the declaration. With a spell on her lips, she turned toward the voice— and toward the butt of a sword, which came down hard on her temple.

* * *

It was immediately apparent that something was very wrong. Instead of fading, the bright spots brought about by the hit she took to the temple grew brighter. No matter how many times she blinked, her vision wouldn't clear. It looked like the world was made up of shapes of light and shadow; instinctively, she knew the form closest to her for a friend, and the ones just beyond it to be enemies, but she did not know how she knew.

She clenched her hands into fists, and felt nothing— not the fabric of her robes against her skin, nor the press of her fingernails in her palm. She stepped back, and did not feel the ground push up against her. Everything felt blurred, like the lines defining the boundaries between each object, each person, had been pulled out, like the stitching in a garment.

"You are not a spirit," she whirled at the voice, finding herself face-to-face with a woman— a woman with edges, even if she had the same white brightness that Lorelei knew most spirits never bothered to disguise. Her features reminded her of someone, but she couldn't quite remember who. "Nor are you a demon. What are you doing here, Mortal?" The spirit frowned, studying her openly, and a flicker of green pulled Lorelei's attention away from the spirit, and to a chain of light running from the spirit's temple to one of the brighter forms— it was back-to-back with another, and both were waving their arms in a familiar pattern.

When she squinted, both forms came into focus and she whirled to face the spirit once more.

"Anders is a Spirit Healer," she breathed, "You're here because of him, aren't you? Which type of Spirit are you?"

"I am Compassion," the spirit's voice was soft, and she ducked her head slightly, wearing a gentle smile, "I am often drawn to those who seek to help others and to soothe pain." She frowned, looking down her familiar nose at Lorelei, but with curiosity, rather than contempt. "It has been a long time since I have seen one of your kind in our realm, Dreamer— what is it you seek?"

"I have to wake up," Lorelei realised, voicing her thoughts without thinking, "The camp is under attack!"

"It would be most unfortunate," the spirit said, and the chain between Compassion and Anders thickened, then waned— with his casting, she realised, "If your companions were to die. Do you seek to kill your attackers?"

"Only if there is no other choice," Lorelei responded automatically, realising too late that she should be thinking more carefully on her words when dealing with spirits.

"You would show mercy? These," at the spirit's gesture, several of the forms weaving back and forth pulsed, and Lorelei could see their shapes were outlined faintly in red, "Would kill you all. They were sent to kill one of your party."

"Who—" Lorelei felt her face go slack, "Leliana." She did not know how she knew, or why the only other woman in their group would be the target of bandits, but she knew it as surely as her own name. "Where is Leliana?"

Compassion gestured, and Lorelei rushed to the prone form— then frowned, realising that there was another— an outline, a shadow, barely even registering, but it was there. Also prone, near where she'd fallen.

On appraisal, it was _exactly_ where she'd fallen. She turned away from it, disquieted, and to the bright shape in front of her. It was fading, and there were rivulets of light pouring away from the main form— and a spreading web of red in the middle. Lorelei focussed, feeling a pulse of— pain, pressure— and then it was Leliana, hands pressed against her side and blood bubbling through her fingers. When Lorelei touched her, there was a sharp feeling, like pinpricks at every point of contact. Lorelei swivelled, trying to find the bright shape that was Anders.

"She is obsured by her tent," the spirit explained, "I would communicate her position to the mage, but—" Compassion spread her hands in a gesture of helplessness, "He would only interperet it as a need to heal the Warrior."

Lorelei was standing and chanting before she realised it, weaving a net of magic around Leliana. The spirit drew close, and it felt like she was standing next to a lightning rod that was being continuously struck.

Her spell was bright and green, and she could see the lines wrapping around her wounded companion, forming into a tight shell around her skin, sheets of white disappearing under a net of green. The form in front of her _pulsed_ , like a fire being fed kindling, and the red began to gather, just under the wound, and then pour out like blood. Lorelei started, wondering if she'd made it worse.

"That is only the poison, leaving the body," Compassion said gently, "Your concern is— surprising." Lorelei made a face.

"Why would my concern be surprising? Leliana is my friend."

"And if she were not?"

"It is not in my nature to watch someone suffer and do nothing." The spirit seemed satisfied.

"You are— not like the Dreamers I have met before."

"Dreamer— you say that word just like—" Just like the Desire Demon had. Compassion tilted her head, smiling an indulgent smile. "I thought that I was just a regular mage." She winced, "As regular as a mage is, at any rate."

"You hoped," the spirit corrected.

"Compassion, I—" Lorelei glanced around, then jumped as the bright form that was Leliana rose and staggered toward the others. A strange feeling went through her, and she felt like a piece of metal that had been struck by a stone. A ripple, starting at her feet, spread outward, and Compassion flickered in front of her.

"You are waking," the spirit explained, "Those you put to sleep are beginning to awaken as well. Will you show compassion, I wonder?" Compassion tilted her head, and Lorelei could almost swear that she was smirking. The smirk was— familiar.

Another ripple went through the Fade, and Lorelei closed her eyes, trying to focus on her body to make the transition easier.

When she opened her eyes, Anders was standing over her, and she realised why the spirit had looked so familiar: Compassion had taken the appearance of a woman who looked very much like Anders.

* * *

"She's fine," Anders said, then squeaked as he was roughly pulled upwards and replaced by Alistair.

"Leliana—"

"She's fine, too," Anders poked his head out from behind Alistair's pauldron, and she almost laughed at the image of her fellow Grey Warden with a second head between his neck and shoulder. "I'm not entirely sure how, though— there was blood everywhere, and the blade that struck her was poisoned, or so she says— but not a mark on her." Anders shook his head, "I am halfway to not believing that she was ever injured at all— she says that the Maker saved her. You do keep _interesting_ company these days."

"Templar, lay-sister, Qunari, spirit healer, b-blood mage," Lorelei had to turn her head slightly to see Jowan, who was kneeling by her other side, "Are you trying to finish some sort of a collection?"

" _Lay_ -sister?" Lorelei groaned, just knowing that Anders was wiggling his eyebrows suggestively.

"What about the survivors?" Jowan winced.

"Tied up— Leliana and the Qunari are arguing over what to do with them." Lorelei held out her hand, and Alistair pulled her into a sitting position as Jowan continued, " _He_ says that we should kill them, and _she_ wants to show mercy."

"We can't just let them go," Alistair said, though Lorelei wondered if there wasn't a bit of hesitation in his voice, "They tried to _kill us_. In our sleep."

"I don't get that, actually," Anders put in, "How many enemies have you made since you left the Tower, anyway?"

"A few," Lorelei admitted, "But— I think they were here to kill Leliana, and the rest of us..." She pulled her feet under her, wincing as the rocks cut into her feet, and, leaning heavily on Alistair, stood.

"How do you know that?"

"Were you in the Fade again?"

"In the _Fade_? _Again_?" Anders seemed to be trying to decide on whom to focus his look of disbelief— her, or Jowan. "You can't just _go into the Fade_."

" _She_ can," Jowan pointed at Lorelei with his thumb, "It's how she helped Connor at Redcliffe." He followed up his gesture with an _I told you so_ smirk, and she held up her hand in warning.

"I think I should take a look at you," Anders said, staring at Jowan, "I think that you might have suffered a head injury."

"Actually, _I_ sustained the head injury," Lorelei rubbed her temple for emphasis, though she knew that Anders had already healed the cut there. "Two, in fact: one at Redcliffe Castle, and one just now." Anders' face was slack with shock, then he grinned.

"Oh, that was a good one," he said finally, "You had me totally convinced for a second. I never figured you for a joker." Lorelei shook her head, then looked around, spotted Sten's very-hard-to-hide figure, and started towards it, leaving Anders sputtering behind her and Jowan invariably wearing a smirk similar to the one he'd shed.

* * *

"It feels better to have that off my chest," Leliana said, and Lorelei withdrew her hand from Alistair's arm. She hadn't wanted him to interrupt the bard— now confirmed as a bard— until her story was done. It felt important, somehow, to let Leliana speak her piece. "Thank you for listening, and for understanding."

"But— why now? You were in Lothering for two years," Alistair gave voice to Lorelei's own thoughts.

"I do not know," Leliana shifted, absently pressing a hand to the place where a her wound had been, "Perhaps she has been watching me, all this time— perhaps because I left, she thinks that I mean to go after her." She glanced at Lorelei, and she looked— mournful, "Perhaps it is best if we part ways. You have a Blight to defeat, and I am only putting you in more danger with my presence."

"Leliana," she leaned forward to take Leliana's hand as Alistair spoke, "We— junior as we are— are _Grey Wardens_. We are to spend our lives in battle against _darkspawn_. That we would be in any large danger because of your presence feels laughable."

"We will take some extra precautions when we camp," Lorelei declared, and Alistair nodded in agreement, "But as far as I'm concerned, you are welcome with us, if you still want to come with us to Ostagar. Any assassins that she sends after you will have to fight darkspawn to get to you— and maybe _that_ will give them some pause."

"You are right," she said finally, "I do not think that there is anyone that I would feel safer with. I feel as if the Maker wants me to follow you against this Blight, and I will not falter, even for assassins." Her lips curved upward at the edges, and Lorelei couldn't help smiling in return.

Then she realised that she couldn't let Leliana keep believing that _the Maker_ had healed her— it was unfair, not just to the bard, but to the others— and to herself, if she ever wanted to discover more about this strange gift of hers. Lorelei sighed, rose, and gestured for Alistair and Leliana to follow her as she rejoined Anders and Jowan by the fire.

"I'm afraid that I have something to confess," was how she started, and after that, the words just seemed to flow forth, filling the stunned silence of her companions.


	8. Reunions and Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warren's group meets Lorelei's in Lothering.

Lorelei was less surprised at the presence of a templar at the northern gate to Lothering than she was at the fact that he was alone. She beckoned to Leliana, and was about to ask the former lay-sister if she recognized him when an all-to-familiar sensation— like bubbling in her veins— brought her and Alistair to full attention.

"Is that—?"

"Darkspawn, yes. Leliana, Jowan, cover Anders," she said curtly, and with the briefest hesitation, handed Anders her staff. "Anders is the better healer." The almost-templar shook his head, but made no protests— and there wasn't the time for them as the ground shuddered around them. In minutes, they were surrounded by darkspawn, and they fell into the weaving, circular pattern of combat that seemed to serve them best. Not unsurprisingly, Jowan and Anders made a rather effective team when they weren't sniping at each other, and even without a staff to guide his spells, between his hexes and Leliana's marked talent for misdirection and distraction, Anders was mostly unmolested.

For her own part, Lorelei focussed on keeping herself moving quickly enough to avoid blows and less impressive spells that distracted, stunned, or otherwise inconvenienced the twisted creatures closest to her while ducking, spinning, and on occasion— rolling in the dirt to avoid a blow. It didn't do her appearance any favours, but dirt was far easier to remove from her robes than blood.

A hard kick to her lower back sent her sprawling, and while she twisted, rolled, and regained her feet even before she felt Anders's healing magic settle into her skin, she was surrounded by grinning, skull-like faces. She knew immediately that she was in trouble— a blast of concussive energy sent the closest to staggering, but others slipped through the gaps in their ranks, fetid breath coming at her from all directions. She was too small to see over them, and they were packed too tightly for her to see past them.

She summoned another blast of arcane energy, thrusting her hands down to her sides and then flinging them up again, then spun, and put as much strength behind the resulting force-field that she could summon. The spell flickered into place, forming a shining sphere around her and pushing the line of darkspawn back several inches. Lorelei was already taking a deep breath, thinking through her options for when the spell failed and the darkspawn surged forward— force-fields were powerful, but draining; all she had really given herself was time.

An odd ripple went through the shield as the darkspawn battered it with their tainted weapons and grotesque bodies, and for a moment, she was terrified that the spell was going to fail. She watched carefully as a second ripple appeared, then a third, like a thin, reflective curtain, held up high above her, was being lightly shaken. She followed the ripple up, and then around, and when she looked back down at the darkspawn, they were shadowed, bleeding into and out of one another like runny paint on a wet canvas.

And somehow, she could see past them— through them— to the white and gold beacon that was Anders, the white and blue that was Jowan, and further away, Alistair— and the silvered forms of Sten and Leliana and— she squinted, then realised that the first form that she'd identified as Alistair was someone else entirely. Alistair's shape was bright, but with spidery veins of deep grey, just under the surface. She looked down, and found similar veins— lighter, strangely enough, but similar— in herself. They followed her blood, and seemed to bleed outward, reaching towards the sickened shadows of darkspawn around her. It reminded her of the black film of mildew that crept outward from the panes of windows that were never opened, never cleaned— or of parchment left wet for too long, mold tainting the page before devouring the paper completely.

She blinked, then turned again, and found Anders' spirit— a blazing being of light, standing beside the healer as he cast threads of gold and silver and green. She turned away when the spirit did no more than acknowledge her with the barest inclination of her head.

The darkspawn were weaving, twisting— it was hard to see but for sudden breaks in the shadow, bright forms cutting into the writhing mass and then pulling out to burst in elsewhere, always stopping just short of her flickering shield, which appeared only as a chalk-like circle around her that nothing dared to cross. As she watched, it began to fray, tiny specks being eaten away from the outside inward, and she felt a twisting inside her as the bright figure stepped forward, clear of the tainted mass that had twisted and hummed, circling her like prey.

The bright figure raised his arms above his head, and shimmered— and Lorelei realised that the sword in his hands matched the one on his chest. She heard Alistair scream just as the hilt came down upon her face, and both Fade and mortal realm shattered around her.

* * *

 _"And_ _I_ 'm telling you that she is a _Grey Warden_ , and thus is not the concern of the Chantry!" Lorelei shifted, blinking her eyes rapidly to clear her vision. She was being held in a seated position, and the grip around her shoulders tightened.

"Don't make any sudden movements," Anders said softly, lips close enough to her ear that she could feel herself flushing in embarrassment, "Your not-Templar is trying to convince the jumpy bucket head that killing you is a bad idea." She turned her head, catching just a hint of Anders' profile at the edge of her vision, then looked the other way, finding bright blue eyes and red hair to her other side. The slight movement sent the ground bucking under her, and in seconds, she was emptying the contents of her stomach while Leliana and Anders held her steady and kept her forward enough that she didn't get sick down the front of her robes.

"Help me up," she said finally, wanting to be standing, but more importantly, wanting her nose and mouth as far away from this particular patch of ground as quickly as possible.

"I don't know if that's—"

"Anders, please don't make me give you an order," she snapped, and she could almost feel his head wiggle with the force with which he rolled his eyes.

"You're going to be dizzy," the spirit-healer spoke in the clipped, matter of fact tone that pretty much everyone in the tower had learned from Wynne, "I had to be careful how much magic I used in front of Ser-Smites-a-Lot, and I wanted for you to be awake, anyhow." Lorelei considered the simple feeling of having her feet under her— even if it felt like she was being held upside-down and shaken— to be a victory. "He hit you _hard_ , even considering the whole—" his hold on her shifted as he made a gesture that she didn't see. She let Leliana and Anders hold her straight as she forced her chin and eyes up in time to meet the wary eyes of the strange Templar.

"Explain yourself," the templar said curtly, turning away from Alistair, who was red-faced with anger. Lorelei tried, but her words sounded wrong, somehow, and they bled together too much for her to understand why.

Then Leliana was speaking, in her smooth, convincing voice, and Lorelei realised that her words had come out in the wrong language. She stiffened, and was about to dip into her mana when Anders' grip on her arm tightened in warning, followed by a wave of healing magic— mostly gold and green— rushed around her and settled into the skin and bones of her head and neck. The ground stopped shifting beneath her, and she was almost able to stand straight without the steadying arms on either side.

"I am a Grey Warden," she said finally, "As is Alistair." She knew that she looked anything but fierce, but she tried for a glare anyway. "As you are the one who attacked me, I believe that it is _you_ who is required to explain— _ser_." The templar shifted slightly, but stayed as straight and stiff as the blade on his back.

"I am a servant of the Chantry," he said finally, "I believed that you were an apostate." He managed a glare that was quite a bit more intimidating than her own, though she'd seen Wynne do better, "You were clearly practicing magic far beyond what is taught at any Circle."

"You were floating in the air, a little," Anders whispered, "And glowing."

"You were a bit transparent, like a spirit," Leliana added helpfully, "Infused with the Maker's light." Lorelei closed her eyes, and when she opened them again, the templar still appeared openly suspicious— though slightly less inclined to run her through. It was progress.

"I imagine that mages are taught significantly more of magic than templars," she said finally, earning a bit of a smile from Alistair, who had kept himself close to the other templar, ready to jump to her defence, while Sten stood by stoicly, still holding his sword. She nodded to him, and the sword he'd gained in Redcliffe— truly _his_ sword, as he'd told her earlier during the trip— was sheathed on his back in one smooth movement. Lorelei tilted her head.

"I am the Grey Warden, Lorelei, formerly of the Ferelden Circle of Magi at Kinloch Hold," she said finally, "May I have the honour of your name?"

"I am Ser Wesley," he said, crossing his arms over his chest, "The two mages with you— are they Grey Wardens also?" She didn't like the way he was eyeing Anders and Jowan, so she spoke up quickly.

"They are here to aid us in the fight against the darkspawn horde, and so are under our protection." He stared at her for a long, tense moment, then nodded stiffly. She imagined that there was likely to be some trouble about that later, but the templar seemed temporarily appeased.

A sudden movement from Alistair— a straightening, a glance— as well as a warm feeling just under her skin prompted her to turn and note the approach of a small group, including an immediately familiar, willowy figure with a distinctive, straight-backed gait. She was waving before she even thought about it, and while the stand-offish Dalish Elf seemed to hesitate before waving back, the metal-clad form of Ser Warren did not.

* * *

" _Neria_?"

The white-haired girl stumbled, and was kept from falling only because of Theron's quick movement to her side, holding her by the arm until she regained her footing. When she looked up, still leaning forward into the Dalish Elf's steadying arm, the curtain of bright white curls parted, revealing familiar slanted eyes of bright silvery-green. Behind her, Jowan took a sharp breath and stepped back, bumping into Anders.

"It's like a Circle mage _convention_ ," the healer breathed, "First you and then Jowan—" Neria flinched, and just as Lorelei turned around to face the ill-fated blood mage, someone brushed past her, and she stumbled. By the time she looked up, Jowan was blubbering down at a lithe, golden-haired form attached to the dagger at his throat.

" _You_ ," the figure spat, "You're the one that used her and then left her to—"

"Kali, please," Neria had rushed forward, pale hands held out in entreaty. Jowan's eyes flicked over to the girl who had been his only real friend in the Tower, and then to Lorelei. A spot of blood bloomed at the tip of the dagger, and his eyes widened.

"Keep your eyes on me, you filthy shem," the woman's voice was barely a whisper, hissing through her teeth as if propelled by pure rage, " _I am_ _your death_." Lorelei was surprised that no one was moving— they were frozen in place like marionettes encased in a block of ice.

"I hope that isn't strictly true," Lorelei was adopting one of Alistair's tricks, she knew, but it seemed to give the strange Elf pause, if the sudden stiffening in the shoulders was any indication to go by, "Jowan is under the protection of the Grey Wardens."

"He deserves no protection. I will gut him like the greasy pig that he— gah!" Ser Warren had closed the distance between himself and the angry woman with quick, smooth strides, and now held the Elf's tiny wrist firmly in one hand while he pushed Jowan back with the other. "Let me go!" She hissed and kicked and twisted and tried to bite herself free, howling with rage as Warren's superior strength held her in check.

"Kallian! Kali, _please_ ," Neria's eyes were wide and sad, "It's fine."

"It's not fine!" Jowan was grimacing and rubbing his now-healed neck, unable to keep his eyes off the golden-haired terror for more than a few seconds. "He betrayed you!"

"I think that we need to have a discussion," Ser Warren said finally, tilting his head to avoid a collision with the back of Kallian's skull as she slammed her head back, then slid forward, looking only slightly discouraged by the miss.

"Neria, I—" Jowan had his hands out, palm up, "I'm sorry." The sudden tightening around Neria's lips was telling— even more so, the speed with which the one person who had consistently put up with Jowan in the Tower turned her eyes and face towards Lorelei.

"I believe that Ser Warren is right," she said finally, an odd note in her ringing voice— a voice that always inspired a fierce sort of jealousy in the older (but far less talented) mage. "We should talk, Lorelei."

"Then we shall." Lorelei turned briefly to the group, "Anders, take Jowan somewhere else." She imagined that she would be having a long talk with him later, but as of right now, he was not the priority. "Kallian, is it?" The girl was extraordinarily pretty, even when baring her teeth in a snarl, "Neither you nor Neria is in any danger with us— but if I have to use a sleep spell on you to keep Jowan safe, then we will. I would prefer, of course, that it wasn't necessary." She didn't seem satisfied, but she settled somewhat, pushing Warren away roughly when he released her.

"This isn't over, _shem_ ," the girl spat, and stalked over to where Theron was watching impassively. The two traded a few words, and when the girl made several gestures in her direction, looking at times angry and perplexed, Lorelei wondered what she was being told.

"Another apostate?" Lorelei stiffened, and watched Neria do the same, as Wesley eyed the Elf speculatively. "Is this one under Grey Warden protection as well?"

"Since she was travelling in the company of my brother wardens," Alistair put in, gesturing first to Warren, then to Theron, "Then you can assume, Ser Wesley, that she is."

"It is best not to assume anything, especially about apostates," the Templar lectured, "Each one is an unknown, and a danger."

"Apostates or not," Ser Warren said slowly, "They have agreed to aid the Grey Wardens against the Blight, knowing that it could cost their lives. I see no such support from the Chantry."

"There, it is settled," Alistair said cheerfully, "So unless you have some other business with us, Ser Wesley—"

"I do," the templar said finally, and Lorelei started, then gestured for Alistair and Warren to take over with Wesley before turning back to Neria.

"Let's talk," she gestured to a tree not far away, and the snowy-haired Elf preceded her.

* * *

"...And then he told me that he was better off without me, since the Chantry still had my phylactery," Neria was facing Lorelei, back and palms pressed against the tree as it it were an anchor in a storm. "Truthfully, Kallian is angrier on my behalf than I ever was. Now I just feel— sad, I guess."

"Neria, you're a horrible liar." The Elf wrinkled her nose at that, then smiled thinly as Lorelei rubbed her temples.

"I would have helped him _anyway_ ," Neria said, staring right past Lorelei to something beyond— or into a memory. "If he'd just told me, I would have helped him— blood magic and all— but he _lied_ and then he just—"

"I am sorry." Neria frowned, coming back from where she'd been to focus on Lorelei's face.

"Don't be. If I were in your position, I would have done the same thing." The image of timid little Neria— at least as timid as Lorelei, though she was far more powerful— in her place, telling Arlessa Isolde and Bann Teagan that she was taking Jowan and Connor with her, no matter what Arl Eamon or either of them wanted, was as unsettling as it was laughable. Neria saw her expression and smiled a little wider, "All right, perhaps not _precisely_ the same thing, but I would have wanted to help him again. It's— still hard to believe that you yelled at an Arlessa, to be honest."

"And blackmailed the First Enchanter," Lorelei added, and Neria's delicate eyebrows shot up.

"You— what?"

"Yes, I blackmailed the First Enchanter into letting me take Anders—oh," Lorelei picked at the edges of her robe, "I guess, since you're joining us, that you'll find out soon enough— I can enter the Fade, too."

"Well, yes," Neria seemed confused, "All mages can. That's what makes us— what?"

"No, apparently I can _Enter The Fade_ ," Lorelei adopted Jowan's cryptic tone, and the other girl giggled before sadness flickered across her face, the happy sound extinguished so suddenly that Lorelei immediately missed it. "When I dream, or when I'm knocked out, or—" _Had_ she entered the Fade in the last battle? She remembered seeing Anders' spirit, so she must have, but she hadn't been hit on the head until the end, when Ser Wesley had intervened. "Jowan thinks that it's some rare ability."

"I shall have to investigate a little, and see if such a thing has ever been documented," was the solemn, serious answer, and Lorelei couldn't help but smile at this glimpse of the old Neria Surana— the youngest Harrowed mage in the Circle's history in Ferelden. Though she'd been at Ostagar by the time of Neria's Harrowing, she'd known that it was coming. Neria had always been the Tower's most brilliant student, and Lorelei suspected that she was also the most powerful. The girl was fascinated by magic, and had been known for her experiments and theories— and while she had never shown off her raw power with showy elemental spells like Daylen did, every spell she attempted seemed to flow forth with an ease that many apprentices envied, including Lorelei— and especially Jowan.

"About Kallian—" Neria faltered, and Lorelei gestured in encouragement. "I'm sure that I could put in a good word—" the last part was said with such earnest hopefulness that Lorelei winced, and Neria misinterpreted the expression. "She's quite nice, really— she saved me, when the Templars found me. Without her, I'd've been dead for sure."

"I believe you," Lorelei said softly, "She's very protective of you— and that's not something that I could fault her for."

"I could talk to her—"

"Don't," Lorelei let her hand fall to her side, not having realised that she'd raised it, "If she's to be convinced that we're allies, it won't be with words." Neria deflated, raising her hands upward in a gesture of helplessness.

"You are right," Lorelei flinched at the statement, and white curls shifted, tumbling to one side as Neria tilted her head in inquiry.

"It just seems that every time I hear any variation of that sentence, my life changes drastically," she explained, and earned a flash of pale teeth in response.

* * *

Lorelei glanced over to where the second, smaller fire that the Elves had assembled for themselves, shook her head, and sat down at the fire beside Warren, who was sporting a long, jagged scar that started at his ear and ended somewhere under his armor.

"It seems that we all have stories to trade," she said slowly, trying to gauge the mood of her companions. Ser Wesley, having stated his intention to join his wife at Ostagar, shifted uncomfortably between Alistair and Sten, then resumed glaring at Jowan and Anders, who were both paying rapt attention to the chipper bard between them. Across from her was a stranger— she had held back at their first meeting, mostly staying close to Warren and away from the Elves. She had clear, slightly golden skin and a wild, tangled mass of hair that was almost the colour of one of the dark wines smuggled in by a small group of Senior Enchanters at the Tower. She seemed to feel Lorelei's study, and when she looked up, it was not entirely the fierceness of her expression that made Lorelei lean back; her eyes were yellow. It reminded Lorelei of a crow that she'd seen once, and two Chasind Mages that had told her, in passing, of someone called _the_ _Witch of the Wilds_.

"You are afraid of me," the woman's voice was deep and rich, and it carried a note of resignation that felt like a vibration, through her ears and down her back right to her toes.

"I do not know you," Lorelei countered, and the woman snorted, "I am startled, surprised, curious— but surrounded by trusted allies, as I am— no," Lorelei shook her head, noticing the way Warren's mouth lifted slightly at the corners, "I am not afraid of you." She managed to hold the woman's gaze without looking away, and after a moment, the stranger nodded.

"I have no name," she explained, and Lorelei felt her brows knit together as the woman continued, "The name I had before is unsuitable, and I have yet to find another." When she tilted her head, all her hair seemed to stay in place, some of it sticking out at odd angles.

"What was your name before? Why is it unsuitable?" The stranger leaned forward, and for a moment, Lorelei wondered if she'd pitch herself into the fire between them. The flames obscured her face, leaving only the edges of her hair visible, reflecting red light.

"I was the Seeker," she said, pronouncing both the hiss in the s and the click in the k in an exaggerated way, as if she was still learning how her tongue and teeth worked together, "But that is not a human name." Lorelei studied the tightly coiled form, noting that while unusual, 'Seeker' seemed to suit her. "I was called such by my brethren because I always found what I sought— be it treasure or tool or _prey_." Lorelei did not like the way her eyes flicked towards the Elves, but the expression was there and gone before she could accurately categorize it. "Now what I seek is a place."

"It is a perfectly acceptable thing," Sten said, looking both surprised and pleased, "To be called by what you are. It is how it is done among my people. I did not expect to find such sensible behaviour in these lands." Seeker let out a sound that was like a cross between a laugh and a bark.

"Seeker," Warren said carefully, turning his head slightly to fix inscrutable dark eyes on Lorelei's own, "Joined us after we found the Dalish. She was—" he paused, clearly unsure of how to continue.

"Perhaps," the woman said, smoothly save for the stretching of the last s in the word, "Perhaps I should tell the story, Grey Warden." Warren inclined his head, and Seeker smiled— a wide, feral grin that seemed to have too many teeth— and began to speak in her low, throbbing voice.

* * *

"You have been _busy_ ," Warren mused, humour at the edges of his voice, "Saving an Arl and his son from a demon, defying a Bann, berating an Arlessa, harbouring a blood mage and blackmailing the First Enchanter himself."

He had, of course, been busy himself, having to save the Dalish Elves from a curse of their own Keeper's making before they could honour their treaty. She had been horrified at Seeker's tale of an old, old man who outlived his children as well as many generations of descendants of those who had taken them from him, and the living victims of that hatred. She had felt sorriest for this Lady— who should have remained as the spirit of the forest rather than a twisted, trapped spirit formed as an act of revenge. Lorelei had won a small amount of approval for not using the name that the Keeper, Zathrian, had given the spirit. Witherfang was an instrument of revenge, but the Lady was she who had somehow grown, changed, and granted the werewolves some semblance of sanity.

"And you even venture into the Fade, seemingly at will," Warren mused, and Lorelei knew, from the tightness in her face, that her attempt at a smile had become a grimace.

She had told Warren everything— she didn't know why she trusted his judgement so completely, but she did. He was fierce and unwavering and he seemed to have little inclination to participate in the starting of plots or weaving of schemes.

"It appears to be so," she rolled her shoulders and leaned back, pulling her elbows off her knees to stretch. "Though I don't seem to have much control over it. At first, it was just when I was asleep— then, when I was knocked unconscious." She had noticed that both times, she had been hit on the head while casting— or readying a spell, "And this last time, I was simply—" she gestured helplessly with her hands. "I will eventually have to ask a more experienced mage about it, but I dread the exchange."

"Who will you ask?"

"I don't know." Only months before, she would have immediately named a Senior Enchanter from the Circle, probably Wynne or Torrin or Leorah or even the First Enchanter himself. Now she had good reason to avoid anyone associated with the Circle of Magi or the Chantry, on top of the strange nature of this ability, which was reason all on its own.

"The Dalish will probably be the first to arrive," Warren mused, "Keeper Lanaya may know of such an ability." He turned his body towards her, bumping her knees slightly and fixing his dark, serious eyes on her, "I would be careful to whom you reveal it; the fear of magic runs deep, even in some of the most open-minded of Fereldans. If it is something that makes even your mage companions nervous..." Lorelei nodded.

"Neria's not nervous," she said softly, smiling slightly at the memory that mention of the name provoked— of many whispered discussions about history and magic, often across a table filled with books, many of them opened to marked pages. "She's— fascinated." Warren shifted.

"That is another thing," he said slowly, as if trying to pick exactly the right words, "I do not know how Duncan will react to find that you've brought him two apostate mages— and alienated the Arling of Redcliffe. He was very clear about the need for diplomacy." He was right, but that didn't stop Lorelei from feeling indignant, even angry. She took a deep breath, reminding herself that if she reacted defensively to Warren's careful words, she had no hope of withstanding Duncan's censure.

"I will stand by my decisions," she said finally, and noticed that a smile ghosted across Warren's lips before he was stern and stoic again. "I could not leave an untrained mage— especially one who had been possessed— in the care of unqualified nobles and I could not allow the Circle of Magi to shirk its duty."

"And your decision to blackmail the First Enchanter?" He was raising one eyebrow at her; it was an expression that had always irked her, mostly because she couldn't reproduce it.

"It verified Jowan's story— that part of it, at least— and I believe that Uldred is in pursuit of his schemes even at Ostagar. It was dangerous for me to be unsure of it." Warren nodded, still eyeing her thoughtfully.

"And suddenly, you are a major player in Ferelden politics." Lorelei straightened, turning a look of alarm on her comrade.

"I did not intend—" His expression was one of open amusement, and she frowned, confused.

"I don't believe that anyone ever does," he sounded even more amused than he looked, and she was almost insulted. "When we spoke at Ostagar," he paused, as if to check to make sure that she was listening, and then continued, "I never thought you'd be this clever. I thought you'd stumble about like a child jester, and you have, but—"

"I— what?" Warren laughed. "I don't—"

"I thought that you might make enemies with your words," he said, still smiling— he looked remarkably young when he smiled. "I didn't realise that you would manage to protect yourself at the same time."

"I didn't—"

He rose to his feet and began to pace, gesturing with his hands, "Neither the Arlessa nor the First Enchanter can act against you directly— and you don't even seem to be aware of it." He stopped, turned, and looked down at her, ruining his intimidating appearance by blowing his hair out of his eyes.

"You're saying that I've been—" she trailed off, finally understanding.

"I'm saying that you've Andraste's own luck," he grew more serious again, perhaps thinking, as she was, of how Andraste's luck— and life— had ended.

"All the same, I'll be glad to return to Ostagar, and to following orders." Warren shifted, and she tilted her head in enquiry.

"You may not think that when it actually happens," he said darkly.

She tried to ask him to clarify, but the others had returned and he refused to speak of it— focussing instead on satisfying the legendary appetite that came along with being a Grey Warden.

* * *

The woman moved with her, lithe and quick, the edges of two blades— one high, one low— glowing almost green in the moonlight, filtered through the wide leaves of the trees above.

Kallian's eyes were cornflower blue— bright, keen, and unwavering on Lorelei's own. However she had learned to fight, she had learned well; Lorelei suspected that her style was less formal, more of the brutal sort that favoured a quick kill, clean or not, fair or otherwise.

"I could have killed you many times over already," Kallian was relaxed, her breathing slow and even, but there was something about her face that told Lorelei that she wanted something. "You shems are— so sloppy."

"I am a mage," Lorelei tried to smile a little, but it only seemed to anger Kallian; the tip of her dagger twitched, moving with Lorelei's chin as she flinched. "We are not taught to fight— it is not done."

"You think _Elves_ are afforded such rights— in the filthy slums that you shems force us to live in? You think us free?"

"I think no such thing."

" _You're lying_!"

"Kallian, hold," Lorelei didn't dare to break eye contact to look over to where Neria had appeared. "Kali, please."

"What makes her any different from anyone else at your Tower? That one that betrayed you? How much do you know about her?" Kallian's eyes narrowed into slits, and her lips were drawn back from her teeth in a snarl. "You trust too easily, Neria."

"She may, but I do not." Lorelei had some trouble resisting the urge to look, to see the expression on the taciturn Dalish man's face. "Lower your weapon, Kallian— this woman is an ally." Lorelei blinked, and watched Kallian's expression soften, just slightly, as she withdrew, sheathing her blades with a smooth movement.

"I will trust your word," Kallian kept her eyes focussed on Lorelei as she turned, tipping her head in Theron's direction, "But I will not do so blindly."

"Perhaps we should start again," Lorelei said softly, holding out her hand to the suspicious Elf. Kallian eyed her hand until she dropped it back to her side, feeling somewhat awkward in the lengthening silence. It was several tense moments before the golden-haired woman huffed dramatically and held out her hand, still glaring at Lorelei as if daring her to attack.

"I am Kallian Tabris." Ignoring the hostility as best she could, Lorelei took the long-fingered hand in her own, grasping lightly before releasing her grip and pulling back.

"My name is Lorelei Charis." A sharp intake of breath brought her attention to Theron, who was studying her with a sudden, intense interest.

" _Charis_?" She frowned.

"Yes, why?"

"Charis," Theron said slowly, face twisting into an expression of complex emotion, "Charis is a _Dalish_ name." Suddenly all three Elves were staring at her as if they'd never seen her before, with Neria tilting her head this way and then that. Theron looked slightly odd, as if he had some personal attachment to the— apparently Dalish— name that she claimed as her own.

"How would a human end up with a Dalish name? An _Elven_ name?" Lorelei frowned, unsure of what Kallian was trying to imply.

"So— it was true, then— the rumour?" Neria's head was tilted to one side, waves of white flowing over her shoulders. Lorelei took a breath, recognizing the expression as one of study.

"Which one?" Neria answered Lorelei's tense smile with a serene one of her own. There had been a few rumours, after all.

"That your father was Elven," Neria's voice was so calm that she may as well have been asking after Lorelei's favourite colour.

"Yes, my father was Elven," she admitted.

"That explains it!" Neria said excitedly, drawing pointed glances from Theron and Kallian, "I always wondered why you were so different from most humans." Lorelei flinched.

"I am still human," she said with exaggerated care, "I am not asking for—" She gestured awkwardly. "I know what Elves think of mixed children."

"The children of Elves and humans are always human," Theron said, still studying her openly, with the same focussed gaze that he wore when aiming arrows in combat.

"But look," Lorelei winced as Neria pointed to various parts of her face, "It's not obvious, really, but if you look for it—"

"Neria, please," Lorelei stepped back, unsure of how to react to suddenly becoming an item of scholarly interest.

"It does not make a difference," Kallian raised her chin as she made the pronouncement, "Elven blood does not make you an Elf— nor does it make you an ally." The delicate-featured woman sniffed with disdain.

"Good," Lorelei said softly, "Race is hardly an indicator of loyalty, or quality of character." Kallian responded with a glare before she stalked back into camp, leaving Lorelei wondering about the emotion that had flickered— for the briefest moment— across the deceptively pretty face.

It almost seemed like... _pain_ , the kind that always had a story behind it.

* * *

"Hey," Alistair's elbow brushed against Lorelei's shoulder as her armoured comrade came up beside her. He stretched the word in that way of things, making one syllable into two.

"Yes?" The playful Grey Warden grinned, glancing in the direction of Kallian, who had been noticeably less hostile since the discussion in the woods.

"You're pretty popular," he said, "Any tips?" She frowned.

"I don't understand."

"Oh, you know," Alistair shrugged, lifting one shoulder and then the other, turning the movement into a stretch. "On making people like me. You seem to be weirdly good at it."

"I don't _make_ people like me," she snapped, hating herself instantly as the cheerful expression faded from his face, replaced by one reminiscent of a kicked puppy. "I— I'm sorry, I didn't mean to sound so harsh." Alistair recovered quickly, and Lorelei wondered how deeply her tone had stung him. Lorelei sighed, and turned her attention back to the ground in front of her, narrowly missing a small hole in the road that might have caused a nasty fall.

"I'm not used to being— popular, as you call it," she explained, nearly feeling the movement as he suddenly straightened, betraying his interest in her answer, "I was the one that went unnoticed, most of the time. To be honest, I actually— well, I preferred it that way."

"I don't understand."

"Sometimes it's better not to be noticed," she said wryly, "It means being easily dismissed, underestimated— and as much as that might be bad, it had its advantages, too. I always knew about dorm inspections. I knew which Templars were sympathetic, and which were looking for an excuse to mistreat a mage." Alistair flinched, and she smiled slightly. "I knew more about my teachers, which allowed me to avoid upsetting them. I knew when a Harrowing was going to happen, and sometimes, even who would be called for the test." Lorelei winced, "And I knew who was going to be Tranquil."

"I can't imagine having that kind of knowledge," Alistair mused, "Did you ever act on it?" Lorelei nodded.

"I was being considered for the ritual," she admitted, and he stopped abruptly. She paused, turning slightly toward him, and he quickly closed the distance between them, allowing them to resume their pace.

"I— wow. I can't even—" Alistair threw up his hands, and his armour squeaked with the movement. "Why?"

"I told you before that only promising apprentices are allowed to attempt the Harrowing," he nodded, and she continued, "What I didn't tell you was that I was not considered one of them until I managed to impress the Knight-Commander."

"You said that you don't know how..." Lorelei shook her head, and he frowned at her.

"I _did_ imply that," she admitted, and the lines between his eyebrows deepened, "But it wasn't strictly true. I started forcing myself to be noticed more— not with displays of raw power, but with small displays of knowledge and control— and study of the Chant of Light." Alistiar choked, and Lorelei shrugged. "I started helping the younger apprentices, freeing the Enchanters to answer more complex questions. I worked with Neria on some of her projects— well, that I was doing already, but I made sure to be a little more open about it."

"That's— really sneaky," Alistair sounded rather impressed, and Lorelei could feel the heat rising to her face. "I should keep a closer eye on you."

"Hm."

"Well," Lorelei found herself glancing up at his face, prompted by an odd note in his voice. He looked suddenly solemn. "I'm glad that it turned out the way it did— with you here, I mean, in the Wardens." She smiled, a little uneasy at the change in the mood.

"Thank you," she felt a bit ridiculous with this answer, and noticed the bright spots of colour on Alistair's cheeks. "I'm glad too."

_I think._

* * *

"It would not have been done, in my lands," Sten said, and Lorelei started slightly at the sudden break in the silence.

"What do you mean?"

"The Qunari would not pair a Human and an Elf together for the purposes of mating." This brought her to a complete halt, and she heard the protests of armour and wet clothes as the rest of the group followed suit. A quick glance around revealed expressions of stunned horror all around. When she returned her gaze to Sten, he seemed surprised. "Have I offended you?"

"Such a thing is not spoken of," Leliana explained helpfully.

"You speak of it freely enough when she is not present— why is it less acceptable to ask directly?" Leliana seemed reluctant to look Lorelei in the face, and when she looked closer at the others, she noticed similar behaviour in Jowan, Anders— and even Alistair. It stung more than she would have expected, having been through many such experiences over the course of her life.

"Because they're ashamed of indulging in gossip," Warren said sharply, "And rightfully so." Lorelei reached up to adjust the hood of her cloak, feeling suddenly self-conscious under Warren's appraisal. "We should keep walking." With that, he spun abruptly and gestured for Alistair to join him at the front of the group. The former templar looked over his shoulder at her as he joined the brusque former Captain, a grimace of apology across his face.

"You said that it would not happen in your lands," she said, somewhat unsteady as she focussed on walking— the rain filled in cracks and holes in the road and made them nearly invisible to travellers.

"No, it would not," Sten's tone warmed slightly— so slightly, in fact, that Lorelei wondered if she imagined it. "The Tamassrans choose suitable partners for all Qunari, based on desirable traits for the next generation."

"But what about love?" Lorelei looked up at the big man's face then, risking rain water in her eyes to see his reaction to Leliana's question.

"Love?" Sten made an odd sound in his teeth, half-hiss, half-click. "Qunari do not associate love with mating."

"I can't— how could you live without love?"

"I do not," Sten was quickly becoming annoyed, and Lorelei wondered if it was Leliana's tone or her interruption that irked him most. "I am more than capable of forming an emotional bond without requiring the act of mating to do so." His lips pulled back in a snarl, "To pursue— that— with every person that I care for would be—" He shook his head. "I will never understand this place."

"Leliana," Lorelei kept her voice low, "I think you should trade places with Theron." She gestured to where the Dalish Elf skirted Alistair and Warren, disappearing every now and again to scout ahead for danger. "I think Alistair would appreciate the company," she added, silencing Leliana's protest.

"My thanks," Sten said, just as Leliana passed the point where she could overhear normal conversation, "I find her tiresome, at times." Lorelei watched carefully as the bard acknowledged Wesley briefly and received a wave in return. The templar had decided to accompany them to Ostagar in search of his wife, but had not made friends, even after his wife had been revealed as Aveline. He asked few questions and answered even fewer, remaining brusque and cautious in the presence of Sten, or any of the mages.

"Leliana's an aquired taste," Sten started, and she could almost feel him staring down at her.

"I was not thinking of consuming the woman," he said suddenly, and she barely kept herself from laughing. "The more time I spend in this place, the stranger it becomes— have I said something amusing?" Apparently she had managed only to stifle the sound of her amusement— Sten clearly saw it written all over her face.

"It's an idiom." She could see him processing the information, and clarified, "An expression— it is not meant to be taken literally. You would not _eat_ Leliana, but like some foods, it takes time to appreciate her appeal."

"I misunderstood— I apologise," Lorelei frowned at— something— behind the words. It sounded suspiciously like shame.

"My first language is Orlesian, but I have spoken the common tongue for years of my life," she said, "I am sure that there are many such turns of phrase in your own language that would confound me, were I to learn it. There is no shame in falling short of perfection."

"The Qunari way is to pursue excellence in all forms," Sten explained, "That we have few who speak your language— and even fewer that speak it well— is unacceptable."

"I understand," she admitted, "I felt that same shame when I first moved to the Tower— among Orlesians, my Common was considered quite good, but among Fereldans, my accent set me apart. It took me many years to adopt a more 'Fereldan' sound." She tilted her head, immediately regretting it when a rush of cold water ran down her hood, past her shoulder, and then past the hand holding her cloak closed to soak her belly. "As for my— pedigree, if you will— from what you have told me, I doubt that my father, being a mage, would have been chosen as a candidate for any breeding program."

"You are correct. Your mother would have been matched with one more suitable." She laughed. "Did I say something particularly humorous?"

"No," she glanced around, and found that Theron had taken Leliana's position as the rear guard behind them, while Kallian and Neria were directly in front of them, creating a buffer— of a sort— between them and the gossips of the group. It wasn't a secret, really, but she was uncomfortable enough with how freely she was being discussed. "Do you know what the Dalish call the offspring of Humans and Elves?" She realised, as soon as she spoke, how stupid the question was. Of course he didn't know— it was likely that Sten had even less exposure to the culture of the Dalish than to that of Ferelden, or Orlais.

" _Seth'lin_ ," Theron supplied the answer before Sten could agree with her derisive inner-narrative. His voice was as deceptively smooth and careless as his movements tended to be; he was a stalking cat to Kallian's angry viper— just as ready to strike, but calmer, more patient. "Those that choose to breed with Humans, along with those that result, are called _seth'lin_ , or 'thin-blood', in your tongue. Such a pairing is considered a betrayal of Elven heritage— heritage which fades, as every generation seems smaller than the one before."

"So this is what they would call you," Sten mused.

"...And my mother."

"Your mother was human," Theron clarified, suddenly beside her, and she tipped her head upwards to find grey eyes studying her face. She wondered if he was looking for those signs of Elven blood that Neria had mentioned.

"Essentially," she answered, and the Dalish Elf's face became suddenly, carefully blank, which she knew to be the sign of one intense emotion or another. "I was born in Montsimmard," she explained, "It lies within what was once the Dales— my mother was born not far from Halamshiral, once the Elven capital." She looked away, focussing instead on the place where she knew Warren and Alistair to be, leading them ever closer to Ostagar.

"My mother's mother was Dalish, part of a clan hunted down by Chevaliers." Lorelei felt her mouth twist into a bitter shape, both like a smile and utterly unlike it at the same time. "I know very little about her, only that she was captured, imprisoned, that she bore a human child, and that after several attempts, took her own life."

"So you are, essentially, more Elven than human," Sten said, and again, she could feel his study of her, "Is it possible that this is why you are so much smaller than your Human companions?" Lorelei shrugged.

"Humans vary greatly in size," she said dismissively, "My mother was small, and the man rumoured to be her father was known to be— somewhat lacking in stature." Theron made a sound in his throat that she recognized as repressed laughter. "He apparently made up for it in viciousness."

"Did you ever meet this man?"

"No," Lorelei shook her head to add emphasis, once again forgetting the rain, "If the rumours were true, he was dead by the time I was born. He was the last legitimate child of his family." Her mouth twitched, "I saw his name— which I will not speak aloud— on a list of Chevaliers killed at the end of the occupation of Ferelden, specifically, in battle against the rebels. Perhaps it is fitting, that one who so enjoyed abusing his power was killed while trying to subjugate yet another group of people."

"It is— ironic, as you say," Sten replied, with Theron making a sound of agreement.

"That said, I have never expected that I would fit in," she tried to disguise the note of sadness in her voice and failed, "Too human for Elves, too fey for Humans, and too much a mage for the Chantry— or the Qunari."

She was almost disappointed when Sten did not disagree.

* * *

"It's not completely true, what you said," was the first thing that Theron told her during their shared watch, "You would not necessarily be unwelcome among my people." She glanced up briefly to acknowledge his statement before focussing once more on her spell. Neria's wards were far superior to anything Lorelei could cast, and combined with Theron's traps, she had no doubt that they would be warned of any attack well in advance. Her insistence on re-enforcing them with her own, here and there, was probably bordering on ridiculous, but something prompted her— and it wasn't just left over vigilance from the earlier attack by assassins that had caught them by surprise.

The closer they came to Ostagar, the more it felt like something was _wrong_ , off in a way that she couldn't put into words. Even Alistair and Anders had grown less flippant as they neared the old fortress where their comrades in King's Army and Grey Wardens had been left to hold the line against the Blight.

"You would not be welcomed as one of us," Theron qualified, "But you are— we have had humans join our clans before, for brief periods, and your affinity for the beyond— the Fade— is especially rare. Our Keepers collect all sorts of knowledge and lore in the hope of one day recovering the heritage that we lost."

"If you mean to tell me that I would be welcomed as a curiosity," Lorelei felt a piece of her old accent slip in, stretching the edges of her words slightly, and she corrected herself quickly, "That is not particularly reassuring." Theron straightened, and she almost laughed at his expression. "I am not offended, Theron," she said carefully, and she wondered if it would be possible to count his figurative bristles as they settled, "Thank you for the sentiment."

"You are all right, for a shemlen," he pronounced finally, and she found herself a bit startled— and quite touched— by the declaration. It felt similar to when Sten had told her that she was not quite an idiot— shallow praise as it may seem, it meant that she had risen very far above very low expectations.

"Thank you," she said solemnly, noticing the Dalish Elf's grimace just as it skipped off his face, replaced by fleeting relief and then by his customary expression of nonchalance. It seemed that Theron, too, realised that many would have seen the insult in the words rather than the very rare compliment.

"I will scout around the camp again," he said suddenly, and Lorelei wondered if he was leaving her side out of embarrassment or if he shared her growing, nagging unease.

* * *

"Ooh," Anders flicked his fingers at Sten, sending several white sparks his way, and the Qunari took an involuntary step sideways, nearly tripping on a rock. The blonde mage snickered, gesturing to Jowan. Lorelei found that her opinion of the apostate-slash-blood mage improved significantly when he flinched, sending a worried glance toward Wesley, who was trained to be particularly jumpy around magic. Luckily, perhaps, for Anders, the templar was in deep discussion with Alistair at the head of the group, and the spell was small enough not to call either templar's attention to his actions.

Warren stiffened beside her, and she held up a hand, nodding when he jerked his head in Anders's direction. When he— still in possession of Lorelei's staff, due to his greater talent in the healing arts— repeated his earlier action, drawing a curse from the giant, Lorelei took a step back, then forward, reaching out slightly with her hands and then pulling back. When she rocked back on her heels, Anders stumbled.

"Andraste's tits!" Anders looked around, reaching for the borrowed staff, but when his eyes found Lorelei's, he froze. The group around them stopped as they realised that something was amiss, and she lifted her chin slightly as she stood, arms crossed across her chest.

"It seemed appropriate to remind you of a few things," she said flatly, pressing her tongue against her teeth to create the silence between each word, "The first of which being that I do not appreciate bullying, and Sten is not here for your entertainment. The second being that templars aren't the only ones that can drain mana and the third being that this is most decidedly not a _road trip_ : inattention to our surroundings can result in any or all of us being killed by darkspawn."

"The fourth being that you have no sense of humour." It was as if all the air had suddenly fled the area, as by the time he'd spoken, everyone was close enough to overhear his muttered remark. A vaguely familiar feeling gnawed at her, sparks forming at the edge of her vision as she remembered various events from her life at the tower: whispers in the hallways; Tranquil robes left on her bed; that time someone had spiked her tea with lyrium— stolen from a templar and resulting in an investigation that might have cost Lorelei dearly if things had gone differently; Neria, in tears, after someone had dumped glue, leaves and green dye on her, ruining several valuable library books and a new set of robes.

She was halfway in the Fade when she saw it— past the flickering light of Anders' spirit, past the red haze of a curious demon— a twisting, spidery darkness just beyond— and then, just below.

She snapped back suddenly, with a sucking sensation and blinking the lights from her eyes. She was yelling a warning to her companions before she was even over her disorientation. She felt an odd impact against the bottom of her feet and realised that she had somehow been hovering above the ground.

And then, the darkspawn were upon them, and there was no time to think about anything else, least of all the differences between what she and Anders found _funny_.


	9. Game Changers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It becomes clear that things have not been going well at Ostagar.
> 
> (Also, Carver Hawke is apparently a BDH.)

Lorelei didn't get a chance to berate Anders for his actions— the closer they came to Ostagar, the more frequent and vicious the darkspawn attacks became. They tightened their ranks, pulling together to help protect the more vulnerable from the stronger darkspawn.

It became necessary for Anders, Neria and Lorelei to heal in shifts, with two resting or casting very minor spells while one carried the bulk of the responsibility for keeping the rest alive. Jowan, left as the only offensive spell-caster, alternated between pouring himself into attacks and supporting the fighters with haste, energized weapons, and appropriately placed hexes. Lorelei was rather impressed with Jowan— she doubted that he ever would have believed himself capable of such stamina and power.

"It shouldn't be _like_ this," Alistair hissed, cutting the feathered end off the arrow that pierced his shoulder so that Lorelei could pull it out, gripping the blood-soaked shaft just above its sharp, twisted point. The effort resulted in a deep gash across her palm, but one gesture in Neria's direction and the wound was knitting together, right along with Alistair's. "There is no way that Duncan would have let it get this bad!" There was an odd catch in his voice when he said the Warden-Commander's name, and Lorelei resisted the urge to put a reassuring hand on his shoulder— Alistair needed his full attention and range of movement to keep the darkspawn at bay.

"We can discuss it later," Warren shouted, and Lorelei realised that they were all shouting, trying to be heard over the sounds of battle, of cries of rage and pain and the maniacal, terrifying grunting that she suspected was the darkspawn equivalent of laughter.

"If you were thinking of using that _ability_ of yours," Ser Wesley ground out, taking a hit with his shield that sent a spider's web of cracks outward from the impact, " _Now_ would be a good time." Lorelei glanced around, remembering that the first time the full-fledged templar had seen her 'ability', he'd hit her hard enough for Anders to have to spend significant time healing the damage to her skull and then added a few Holy Smites for good measure. When his shield finally shattered, Leliana paused long enough to hand him one of her daggers before firing several powerful shots in swift succession, and Lorelei realised that she didn't actually know _how_ she used her 'ability'. Every time she'd done so, it had been accidental.

A powerful burst of magic from Anders, taking over the healing from Neria while she sipped a lyrium potion and tried to recover her strength, spun about Ser Wesley and Warren in white-gold sparks of light. Lorelei closed her eyes, and when she opened them, tried to focus on the spirit that she _knew_ would be there.

She was. Compassion burst into her view in the space between the four mages— a space that somehow, all four of them had avoided occupying. The woman-spirit smiled, at least Lorelei thought she was smiling, and dimmed slightly as other forms began to come into view.

They were surrounded by darkness, at first appearing almost like one mass. When Lorelei focussed harder, she could pick out the individuals, bound to one another by inky tendrils— tendrils that tried to reach out to her, to Theron, to Alistair and Warren.

"What in the name of the Maker—?" Compassion only smiled, in that sad way of hers, and gestured first to one of Lorelei's companions— Neria— and then to Lorelei herself. She studied Neria's bright form closely, watching the magic pulse within and around her, before looking down at her own body, bright, but with a darkness within, reaching out along the lines of her blood like spindly fingers of corruption. Her head snapped up to the writhing mass of darkspawn around them, and the tendrils of tainted power joining them to each other and to the Grey Wardens— and to something else, entirely. When she reached out, hesitantly, the dark lines thickened slightly, emitting an odd hum that seemed to set her blood to vibrating.

It was similar— but different— to how she'd felt in the Harrowing chamber when she'd reached out towards the brazier, that feeling of a thousand crickets singing against her skin before she was thrown into the Fade to face her final test as an Apprentice.

Lorelei cursed as soon as she saw it, and the world came back into focus, back into the rainbowed world with blurred edges.

"Neria, Anders, you may need to heal us Grey Wardens." Both mages nearly jumped out of their skin, and she realised that her voice had been far louder than she wanted it to be. "Yes, together— it might be a challenge. Jowan, I need you to watch me, and tell them when."

"What are you—" Lorelei pulled her arms and legs close, dragging her overflowing mana and forcing it to pool, some place under her feet.

"Make sure that the Templar doesn't smite me," she said, "This might end up looking a lot like blood magic." With that, she flung her arms out, knowing that she looked like she was trying to master some ridiculous dance form as she continued to wave her arms about and spin, sending threads of magic in all directions. She sent her mana outward, pulsing down the lines of power that she'd lain down, and listened for the answering hum that would tell her that she had connected to that ethereal web of Taint that bound darkspawn and Grey Wardens both. When it came, it shook her nearly to her core— and when she pulled, it took every ounce of her strength not to pass out from the pain until the spell was complete, sending ripples outward and flinging the darkspawn back like tiny bugs in a windstorm.

When the ripples were on their way back, she screamed at the Templar— Wesley, for Alistair was writhing on the ground— to cleanse the area. He did, and Lorelei was grateful for the whole second before there was agonizing brightness, and then nothing.

* * *

"What in the Maker's name was _that_?" She recognised Alistair's voice, playful quality stripped away and replaced with hoarse rasping.

"It's like what she did at the Tower of Ishal, with the ogre." Theron was similarly affected, apparently, and Lorelei wondered if, when she opened her eyes, she'd even be able to speak, ever again.

"Maker's blood, that was true? She really took down an ogre on her own?" She wasn't hurt by Alistair's disbelief— she'd hardly accepted it herself. She was too tired, at that moment, to be grateful to know that she _hadn't_ , in fact, used blood magic, and besides— as soon as she allowed herself that relief, it would be swallowed up by the realisation that what she had used was perhaps _something worse than blood magic_.

"Yes, it is true." Warren's voice was in better shape than Theron's or Alistair's, and she wondered if that meant hope for her own. Probably not— she'd be hoarse anyway from screaming the whole time. "I was almost annoyed, at first, that she'd been sitting on that kind of power— but I learned afterward that what she'd done was not a standard ability."

"It damn well better not be, or colour me pissed off at the Circle for not teaching it to _me_." Lorelei couldn't hold back a groan, and this brought Anders's attention sharply to her, "Anyway, Sleeping Beauty's no longer sleeping."

"I'm still—" If the sound of her voice hadn't given her pause, the sheer effort that it took to force out the words would have, "—not finished speaking with you— about that thing— with Sten."

She managed a seated position with help from the Seeker— who was surprisingly strong— and Wesley, who was as wary of her as ever. She looked up at Anders to find him contrite and holding both hands up in surrender.

"I surrender," he said, as if the hands weren't enough to convey the message, "I will never knowingly anger you ever again. I am a changed man." Lorelei snorted, and pain shot up her spine, turning snort into a laboured, bent-over cough.

"Lucky for you," she managed finally, wiping blood from her mouth as Anders's healing magic washed over her— almost as familiar, now, as her own— "That spell only works on darkspawn, Grey Wardens, and maybe demons. I think."

"You— think." Wesley's voice was so heavy that she wouldn't have been surprised if it fell down, and with the weight of it, shattered the very ground beneath them. "You used devastating magic that might have killed you and the other Grey Wardens and— you think."

"Normally," Neria said, and Lorelei nearly pulled a muscle in her neck from whipping her head around to find the Elven mage, stunned by the note of dry humour in her voice, "I would never suggest using untested magic— but we were about ready to be overwhelmed." She paused, then lifted her pale shoulders in a shrug. "By the way, we will need to buy more lyrium potions— or lyrium powder to make them— because we used them all. You know, before Lorelei used her _devastating magic_ and saved us all from certain death."

Lorelei was not the only one looking at Neria with new eyes— Jowan's were wide as well, as he glanced from his once-meek, once-friend to the other Elves in the party, to Lorelei, then back to Neria, who blushed prettily and looked away. That was more familiar— Neria Surana was almost as adverse to attention as Lorelei was.

"Well—" Alistair coughed, "I, for one, hope that you never have to do that again. _Ever_."

"It did seem to have a particularly bad effect on the Grey Wardens," Neria admitted, and Lorelei took a deep breath, recognising the look on the other girl's face, "We should investigate this fully."

Neria and her experiments were going to be the death of something one day— perhaps the death of many somethings.

"I hate to ruin the mood," Kallian interjected, leaping down from a tree and landing neatly on her feet, "But there's someone coming."

"More darkspawn?" Kallian shook her head. "How would you know?" The golden-haired Elf let out a breath, letting it rush loudly through her teeth.

"Oh I don't know. The darkspawn tend to be more— roar, rage, smash smash, kill kill kill, mwu-ahaha— than, you know, stealthy." Lorelei immediately dissolved into a fit of helpless coughs.

Kallian Tabris had a particular gift for gallows humour, and she appeared to be rubbing off— just a little— on precise, timid, gentle little Neria Surana.

* * *

"I hope that you have a good reason for keeping me waiting," the stranger said, and when she turned around, Lorelei had to make a concentrated effort not to stare at her breasts— not because she was particularly interested in breasts, but because they were so— _visible_. She wondered how the stranger managed to stay warm, with most of her chest exposed to the cold air of the Kocari Wilds.

"Oh, it's _you_ ," Alistair, weak as he still was, had his hand on the hilt of his sword. Of course, the speed with which he made the move had him slightly off-balance, and he swayed slightly as he tried to settle firmly on two feet. "Be careful," he cautioned, and it was clear that he was serious, even if he was in no condition to be properly intimidating. "She's an apostate— and she's dangerous." Lorelei nearly groaned at Alistair's sudden (and probably inevitable) return to stating the obvious, even as she appreciated his probably genuine concern for her safety. The woman carried a staff and was clearly no Circle mage, so 'apostate' would have been a rather easy guess.

"So there _is_ an apostate that you won't harbour," Wesley snapped, and only the quick intervention of Seeker and Sten kept the two templars from coming to blows. Lorelei was glad, mostly because Alistair was not in any shape to duel anyone, and she was in no condition to deal with the chaos that would ensue as a matter of course.

"How— disappointing," the strangely dressed woman let out a contemptuous huff of breath, golden eyes— which seemed somehow familiar— falling finally on Lorelei. "Now you, _you_ are interesting. You are why I came here, in fact."

"Am I?" Lorelei spread her hands, palm out, in her best imitation of her former self. She had to admit, upon reflection, that it wasn't terribly good, and the strange woman simply grinned at her. Lorelei dropped her hands and studied the stranger more closely, tilting her head slightly to one side, and then the other. "I feel like we've met before."

"Have we?" The woman's eyes glittered— with humour or malice, Lorelei didn't know her well enough to tell, "We have not been introduced, I assure you. I am sure that I would remember." Her lips thinned out and curved upward in a smile that was almost predatory, "I am equally certain that you would remember."

"I am the Grey Warden, Lorelei," Lorelei said firmly, "If it is not too much to ask, might I know your name— and your purpose?"

"My," she seemed impressed and scornful at the same time, "Such manners. My name is Morrigan, and I am here because my mother wishes to speak with the Grey Wardens— you, I believe, in particular." Morrigan's golden eyes flicked over to Theron. "Honestly, I am surprised. I was sure it would be you, not this little mouse of a mage." Lorelei said nothing— she had changed a great deal since joining the Grey Wardens, but she still knew when she was being baited, and it still took more than that to rouse her temper.

"I suppose that I should be lucky that it is not the dim-witted one that she wants," Morrigan said, sighing dramatically before meeting Lorelei's eyes— and appearing to look right past them— once more. "Well, what say you? Will you meet with my mother as she asks?"

"Don't do it," Alistair warned, "She's dangerous— they both are." Morrigan laughed.

"I do not disagree that we are dangerous— my mother, far more than I— but neither of us mean you any harm at the moment," she said, "She is dangerous to appease, yes, but even more dangerous to ignore or offend." Lorelei weighed her options.

"I would like to take someone with me," she said finally, "Is that likely to offend?" Morrigan considered it, eyeing each member of her party.

"If you pick the idiot or the templar," the wild woman said finally, " _I_ will be offended." Alistair bristled, but said nothing when Lorelei held up her hands. "Ooh, at least he appears to be _biddable_."

"Do not provoke my brother Warden," Lorelei wasn't sure where the words came from, but instead of taking offense, Morrigan laughed.

"So she does have a backbone! Excellent. Pick your companion— that is, if you mean to accept my mother's invitation." Morrigan folded her arms over her chest and watched her as she looked around, thinking through her options and ultimately realising that she only had one.

She gestured, much to the surprise of her companions, to Seeker.

* * *

"Hm," Lorelei tried to bear the old woman's scrutiny as well as she could, but the woman was both unnerving and unwavering in her appraisal. "You are not what I expected." Morrigan's mother stepped back, then, but Lorelei barely noticed the extra space between them. The old woman wore a mantle of power so substantial that it had pressed close against her skin like a hot breath even before Morrigan had lead her and the Seeker to the clearing containing the run-down little hut. "Well? What say you?" She blinked, wondering what sort of answer was required of her.

"What is it that you expected?" Lorelei thought it a fair enough question, but the strange old woman laughed like she'd told a hilarious joke.

"What did I expect— indeed. I met the Dalish Grey-Warden-to-be and expected— perhaps I should have known better." Lorelei glanced at her comrade, but Seeker shook her head to indicate that she had no answers. "I expected things to go as planned, not for a minor player to suddenly promote herself at the last moment. It is a lesson that I did not expect— one I should have learned long ago." Lorelei had trouble following the woman's words— they circled around a point without reaching it, hinting but never stating anything outright.

"You met Theron," Lorelei hated resorting to stating the obvious, but if she was going to gain anything at all from this strange and powerful person, she realised that she was going to have to settle for understanding bits and pieces at a time.

"Yes, and the templar with the smart mouth, and two others. They were— sadly— irrelevant to the grand scheme of things." Lorelei had known of two other recruits— a jumpy warrior that spent his time at the chapel and a sticky-handed man who spent his time hitting on the female soldiers. It occurred to her that they must have died during the Joining— and she wondered how rare it was for all recruits to survive, as they had in hers.

"I knew, when the general charged, that something had changed," Morrigan's mother was continuing, and Lorelei's mind scrambled to keep up, "You should pay attention, Morrigan— the smallest detail can sometimes change a plan completely." It was a relief, when the old woman removed her keen gaze from Lorelei's face, like a breath of cool air. It was, however, a fleeting sensation, as the eerie gaze locked back on almost immediately. "And when I saw you in the woods, I knew that you were the reason."

"In the— you mean when we returned to the Wilds? Yesterday?" Morrigan's mother laughed again.

"Did you not listen, when he warned you? 'Even the least can be far more than they appear'?" Lorelei straightened, and felt Seeker tense beside her. They had not built a close relationship, but the former werewolf had taken her promise to bring her back from this meeting safely very seriously.

"You were the crow— the yellow-eyed crow in the Wilds." She said it with the simple tone of someone stating something that should have been blatantly obvious— and it should have been, from the moment she'd realised that Morrigan's eye colour had been familiar.

"Was I?" The keen old eyes— and they were _old eyes_ , perhaps far older than Lorelei could imagine— glittered. "If that were the case, what would that make me, I wonder?"

"The Chasind man called you 'the Witch of the Wilds'."

"'Witch of the Wilds'." The woman laughed, "Perhaps he was speaking of Morrigan— she is amused by such things."

"No, I think he was speaking specifically of you." She could not have explained why she was suddenly sure of it, but she was— and she remembered, too, that Efraim and his daughter, Chani, had possessed eerily golden eyes— and had been powerful mages.

Lorelei risked a peek into the Fade, and found herself staring into the face of something that was not, and perhaps had never been, Human— or Elven, or Dwarven, or Qunari.

* * *

"Lorelei?" Alistair stepped forward cautiously, tearing his eyes away from her briefly to glare at Morrigan. "What did you do to her?"

"I have done nothing," the witch declared, placing a hand over her breast as if to swear an oath, "'Tis my mother that has her troubled, not I."

"I'm fine, Alistair," Lorelei said, repressing the urge to shake herself all over, like a wet dog trying to dry itself. "Thank you for your concern."

"Well? What did she want with you?" Alistair's eyes slid sideways as Morrigan sauntered into their camp, pausing here and there to inspect one thing or another. "And why isn't she leaving?"

"Morrigan will be joining us."

"What? No!" Warren laid a hand on the templar's shoulder, and he jerked, flinging his arm back and stepping forward. "We'll be bringing enough trouble to Duncan without a _fourth apostate_."

"Duncan? He is your leader, then?" Morrigan had returned. Lorelei found herself thinking that she must get some enjoyment out of baiting Alistair, or she wouldn't do it so often. "The Commander of the Grey Wardens, still in the King's Camp?"

"What if he is?"

"Then he is probably dead— or soon will be." This time, Warren had to jump in front of Alistair to hold him back, and his heavy greaves dug moats into the mud as the most senior Grey Warden of the group lunged forward.

"Would you please explain that?" Morrigan huffed, crossed her arms over her chest, and lifted her chin.

"Very well, but only because _you_ ask it of me: the King's men— and what was left of your Grey Wardens— were nearly overwhelmed in the last battle, nearly completely depleted from the Golden Idiot's foolish quest for glory." Alistair snarled, but Warren was able to hush him surprisingly quickly. "He was eventually convinced to wage a war of attrition, but the darkspawn smelled their weakness and lay siege to that desecated fortress. They have it completely surrounded, and if they haven't infiltrated it already, they soon will. Mother was most disappointed."

"Your mother was disappointed that they survived at all," Lorelei snapped, having had about enough of Morrigan's continued snipes at Alistair. "Your mother would have had all of Ferelden's hope pinned on two Grey Warden recruits." She paused, eyeing Morrigan for a moment. "Is there no way to know for sure what has become of the army at Ostagar? Did reinforcements arrive from Orlais?"

"They have been sent for, certainly," Morrigan admitted, "Though I am not sure that they will come. Mother expected that they would simply wait at the borders and combat the Blight after it had devastated all of Ferelden." There was something about her manner when she mentioned her mother— something that Lorelei decided to push at.

"Your mother expected a lot of things." She watched as Morrigan straightened, watched the edge of her lip curl up the tiniest bit and her brows slide together. _Yes_. "Tell me, Morrigan," Lorelei said smoothly, "Just how attached are you to doing things _the way your mother wishes_?" And there it was— curiosity, and that flash of rebellion.

"What would you ask of me?"

"Can you scout around Ostagar? Report back on who still lives within?"

"That's insane! One witch against thousands of darkspawn—!" The rest of Alistair's comment seemed lost as his lips moved without sound. Morrigan arched a perfect, dark eyebrow at her, and Lorelei was suddenly jealous, both of her ability to perform the gesture and at her wild, dark beauty.

"I could— do as you ask."

"Please, and thank you." Morrigan smiled a true, if somewhat unsettling, smile that spread indolently across her face. She shifted from one foot to the other, raised her arms and— rippled, magic flickering around the edges of her. There was a cry as Ser Wesley noticed and rushed forward— then a louder cry as he landed hard in the dirt, tripped by a smiling Anders.

A golden-eyed crow was in Morrigan's place, balancing daintily on a twig sticking out of the mud. She cawed loudly, jumped into the air, landed briefly on Alistair's head and then jumped again, winging into the night.

"I can't decide whether I want her to come back again or not," Alistair said finally, carefully running his fingers through his hair.

"I think that you should decide," Anders said smoothly, still grinning even as Ser Wesley climbed to his feet, wearing a murderous expression, "To be glad that she didn't crap in your hair." What was more amusing than Anders's comment was the look on Alistair's face as he carefully smoothed his hair, reminding Lorelei of a panicked race to the stream to rinse hardened gruel out of his hair.

Ser Wesley was shouting, which of course was upsetting the careful order they'd managed in the time that she'd been gone with the Seeker. Warren released Alistair and headed toward the knot of angry people, eventually banging his sword against his shield to get their attention. Lorelei decided that she would leave the matter in his more-than-capable hands, and gestured for Alistair to join her.

"I will go hunt for dinner," Seeker declared, and Lorelei nodded.

"Take Sten— he'll appreciate the escape." The yellow-eyed woman nodded and promptly disappeared. "Alistair, I need to talk to you."

"I'm not in trouble again, am I?" Lorelei made a face, shook her head, and waved him toward her as she took several steps— and then several more— away from camp.

"No, but there are things we need to discuss— about Ostagar. About Duncan... if Morrigan is right—" Lorelei winced at the expression on Alistair's face.

"Don't tell me to prepare for him to be dead," he snapped, "I can't do that. Duncan... he— and the King—"

"Alistair," Lorelei reached out both hands, and he reluctantly took hold with one of his own. His hands were massive compared to hers, especially gauntletted as they were in steel. She pulled him to a log, sticking up in the mud, and when he sat, she followed suit. The log was tilted, one side buried in the dirt while the other reached up out of it, so she ended up leaning against his side.

"So what is it?"

"You're not going to like it." He made a face, then sighed.

"I never do. Have at it, then."

"I need you to trust me."

"That's it?" He seemed baffled by it, and she bit her lip. "Of course I trust you! You're— well you're _you_."

"Alistair, I can't always tell you everything, even if I want to." His expression darkened at that; he was probably remembered how she'd acted at the Tower, excluding him until he demanded explanations. "There are things at work here bigger than either of us. Bigger than both of us together— maybe even bigger than Duncan and the King— and I'm afraid." She paused, needing a moment to draw in a fortifying breath before she could continue. "I'm more afraid than I have ever been. I need you to trust me. I need you to have faith in me, even when I can't share everything with you." She smiled, just a little, at his wide-eyed, disbelieving expression. "I promise that I will— try to include you as much as possible. It's not that I don't trust you, but sometimes— sometimes I don't trust my own thoughts."

"Lorelei," his breath pushed lightly against her skin as he spoke, "What happened when you met with Morrigan's mother?"

"Perhaps one day, Alistair, I will find the words to describe it. Today is not that day. Suffice it to say that Morrigan's mother is much more than she appears to be."

* * *

"Incredible," Neria breathed, green eyes wide and bright as Lorelei brought herself completely back from the Fade, inhaling deeply to re-attune herself to her body and this side of the Veil. She hadn't stayed in the spirit realm long, rather she had placed herself neatly between worlds, where that sensation of an almost insubstantial curtain had persisted. It had allowed her to speak to Neria, describing what she saw and felt and somehow _knew_. When she had seen the group approaching— scouts scattered ahead and beside and behind, with a knot of people in the middle— she had come back, informing the unrelentingly curious Elf that they would soon have company. When she described the formation, Neria had confirmed that it was probably the Dalish clan that they'd recruited.

"It doesn't seem real, sometimes," Lorelei admitted, and Neria smiled, her face so happy that Lorelei wondered if the younger mage was going to clap her hands.

"There is so much about magic that they don't teach us in the Circle," Neria said, still sounding like she couldn't catch her breath fast enough, "I wonder how much of it they don't even know about. This is— exciting. I feel like I'm one of the first people to see something like this in hundreds of years!"

"You always did love research."

"People forget more than they invent," Neria explained, eyes twinkling brightly. "I hope to one day discover more of that history— speaking of which..." Neria looked away, and Lorelei frowned at her expression— one of guilt, one of a secret that could no longer be contained. "I learned something, in the ruins that the werewolves had taken as their own." When her eyes flicked back over to Lorelei, they were narrowed, just slightly, and Neria's face was as solemn as it had ever been. "I learned that mages can be warriors, too— they can channel their magic into strength, and into _weilding weapons and wearing armour_."

"That's—"

"Blasphemy, I know— oooh, what would the Knight-Commander say to that?— but I found this phylactery and—"

Lorelei held up her hand, and Neria fell silent, and then began looking around nervously. They had set up this little experiment some ways away from camp, partially to avoid making the more nervous members of their group uncomfortable, but mostly so that they could focus, away from the noise and press of people.

However fortunate or unfortunate, this meant that the Dalish scouts would find the two of them, first— and they had. Lorelei wiggled three fingers, one at a time, and Neria nodded. Neither mage moved to stand.

"Greetings," Lorelei said dryly when a twig snapped.

"Oh— what is it again," Neria frowned in concentration, then brightened, "That's it! _Andaran atish'an_ , travellers!"

Three Elves stepped forward, two men and one woman, all with arrows nocked in their bows and pointed at Lorelei, who couldn't help a small smile at that detail.

"Oooh, you're Mithra, right?" The pale-haired woman barely turned her head towards Neria. "Please don't aim at Lorelei, she's my _friend_ — and a Grey Warden!" Lorelei blinked— it was an odd feeling, hearing Neria declare her a friend _before_ mentioning the Grey Warden bit. She had never considered herself friends with anyone, but she had always liked, admired and worked well with Neria. The bows lowered, with some hesitation on the part of the hands holding them, and Neria jumped to her feet, offering Lorelei a hand, which she took.

"Mithra is one of the hunters from the Dalish clan that agreed to help the Grey Wardens against the Blight," Neria explained— rather needlessly, but Lorelei was too touched by having been declared a _friend_ to really be annoyed.

"Our camp is not far," Lorelei supplied, bowing forward with her arms crossed over her chest, "I am honoured to meet you." The Elves did not quite return the greeting, but did return the bow, and given what she knew of Dalish history— and of this clan, in particular— she was satisfied.

"Inform the Keeper," Mithra told the others, and they seemed to melt into the forest. If Lorelei hadn't known, due to her sort-of visit to the Fade, their arrival would have been far more startling. "Take me to your leader." Lorelei's mouth twitched, and the Dalish hunter's eyes narrowed. "Have I said something _funny_ , shem?"

"Oh no, not funny!" Neria was almost waving her arms in excitement. Lorelei had often been surprised by Neria, and her sometimes child-like manner. The apprentice had been brilliant, powerful, and the youngest apprentice ever to go through her Harrowing— but her behaviour sometimes made her seem even younger than she was. "But I don't think that anyone's actually the _Leader_. It's more of a— group effort, since we joined up." Lorelei pressed her hand to her forehead. "Lorelei could be called The Leader just as well as Warren and I don't even know about Alistair—"

"Neria," Lorelei couldn't help the note of exasperation in her voice, and a glance at Mithra's face told her that the Dalish hunter shared some of her frustration. "Let's just take her back to camp, like she asks, instead of focussing on trivialities." A part of her actually enjoyed the display of enthusiasm from Neria— in the Tower, trembling hands and excited whispers were as far as any of them could go without being noticed (and then sternly lectured) by an Enchanter or a Templar— and the latter might even have thrown a smite or two in for good measure.

"Well all right, then," Neria said, nodding vigorously. Lorelei made a shooing gesture at the white-haired bundle of magic, and Neria grinned before turning and leading the way, with Lorelei behind her and Mithra, cautiously following them.

"There you are," Lorelei held up a hand as the Dalish hunter stiffened behind her and Alistair paused, suddenly realising that Lorelei and Neria were not alone. He glanced over his shoulder, and then back to Lorelei before speaking again. "Morrigan says that there's an army of Dwarves, heading our way."

* * *

Carver Hawke, it seems, had learned how to make an entrance.

A massive construct of steel stood just behind him at the head of a marching army of heavily armed and armoured Dwarves. It wasn't as large as the contingent originally led to Ostagar by Loghain, but Morrigan hadn't lied when she'd said that it had been impressive. Lorelei wondered if it wasn't the entire population of Orzammar.

Carver stood, leaning forward with his arms folded across the hilt of his greatsword, watching as Lorelei approached. He looked different— and not just because he had aquired more mass and an entirely new set of heavy armour to contain it. A scar ran from just above his left eye, across the bridge of his nose, and to the right side of his face, ending at the jawline between chin and earlobe. When she was close enough to greet him, he straightened, and she realised that he was missing the smallest finger on his right hand.

"Well met, Carver," she said, wondering just what had happened since Aveline had led him away, grumbling about babysitting. Lorelei looked around for the very serious and somewhat prickly warrior whose husband had joined their group.

"If you're looking for Aveline, you won't find her," Carver's voice had changed; it was lower, harsher, like he had swallowed a little too much smoke. "She's dead." Carver glanced over Lorelei's shoulder, but his focus seemed further away. "The Deep Roads is— not a nice place."

"I— I'm sorry." Carver shrugged, and she found herself wondering how long ago Aveline had died.

"It doesn't look like your bit has been particularly easy," he gestured in the direction that she'd come from.

"I haven't lost anyone yet," she said carefully, and Carver grimaced.

"For want of a healer in the Deep Roads," he said, waving his hand in front of his face. "I— would rather not talk about it now. I have the Dwarven support for Duncan, and—" he stopped, then, and pinned her with his solemn blue gaze. She fought the urge to squirm— she hadn't found him particularly intimidating before, but whatever happened, it had granted him with a new weightiness.

"Ostagar has been overrun. I was just planning a possible rescue of some of our forces, but—" Carver tilted his head.

"I'm guessing, then, that you could use an army." Lorelei smiled.

"Yes, your timing is— incredible, actually." Carver flinched. "What? What is it?"

"It's— nothing," he lied, then relented, "My timing wasn't good enough for Aveline. But you have a battle to plan, and— whether or not I'm competent, I have brought reinforcements with me. Let me introduce you to some of the major players."

He started with the golem, Shale, and by the time he'd finished the introductions, she had already finished formulating something resembling a plan.

* * *

"Surely you do not intend to mount a full-scale attack," Morrigan said, and Lorelei wasn't sure if she was concerned for their safety or confounded by their apparent stupidity, "Such a thing would be suicide, even with the support of your Dwarven army."

"No, of course not," Lorelei said smoothly, tracing the line of the Imperial Highway that lead straight to Ostagar. They had moved away from the road days ago, when they realised that the road was as easy for the darkspawn to travel on as it was for them— and with the old, decrepit city surrounded, marching in on that road was, as Morrigan had said, tantamount to suicide.

The Dalish Keeper, Lanaya, had informed them that she had put a call out for aid from other clans, but even with more numbers, it was impractical to use the Dalish as a standard marching army— they were better at guerilla attacks and small, co-ordinated raids and skirmishes. Carver's arrival was well-timed, and the Dwarven forces were well-trained when it came to fighting darkspawn, but she did not want to use them to draw the attention of the horde and then see them overwhelmed.

"It might be better to abandon the idea entirely."

"We can't just abandon Duncan," Alistair said vehemently, glaring daggers at Morrigan, who had taken it upon herself to be the voice of practicality and self-preservation. "Or the King, for that matter." The shapeshifter pressed her lips together into a thin, dark line, but did not speak the words that were clearly on her mind. It was rare for Morrigan to hold her tongue when the chance to needle Alistair presented itself, and Lorelei gave her the briefest nod of thanks.

She balled both fists in frustration. She was not seeing much in the way of a plan— small skirmishes were feasible, but wouldn't thin the Horde or distract enough darkspawn to allow more than the barest access to Ostagar— or to secure the escape of many of those trapped within. There was no way to contact the survivors, either: Morrigan could hardly approach anyone within the encampment directly, for the Chantry personnel now outnumbered the regular soldiers and she would be struck down as an apostate as soon as she assumed her human form, and before she could speak. Of course, the templars considered fighting the darkspawn secondary to making sure that the mages weren't using any magic that was not Chantry-approved. No, the most that Morrigan could do was tell them where certain groups were located, perhaps allowing small strike teams to rescue those not in the center of the writhing mass of darkspawn.

"I do not see a way for you to rescue them all," Morrigan addressed the issue in her succinct way, and Lorelei was rather proud of how Alistair managed to reign himself in, barely bristling at the comment. "You will have to decide who is most important." Lorelei blinked— Morrigan had her eerie golden eyes fixed securely on her, rather than Alistair, who had made clear their priorities as they saw them, or Warren, who was the most battle-hardened of them all.

"Why are you looking at me?" Morrigan raised an eyebrow, and Lorelei fought the urge to scowl.

"Are you completely unaware of the fact that all here differ to you? Tis foolish, I agree, but that seems to matter little."

"But I'm not—" Lorelei glanced over at Alistair, then at Warren, and then at Carver. They all indicated, in their own way— a wince, a pair of raised eyebrows, a wave of a hand— that Morrigan's opinion was also their own. Lorelei blinked, unsure of whether she should feel angry, or flattered, or despairing at the realisation that she was being depended on in this way.

"She's right, as much as I hate it," Alistair said softly, looking like each word of the declaration left a bitter taste in his mouth.

"I can't just— decide who lives and dies." Morrigan laughed.

"A bleeding heart," the witch declared, "Of course." Alistair was scowling at Morrigan, but before he could come loudly to her defence, Warren held up a hand.

"As unpleasant as it is," he spoke with obvious care, but his face was otherwise unreadable. "Sometimes there is no perfect outcome. We cannot save everyone."

"But I can't just choose—" Carver snorted, then, and Lorelei looked in his direction, only to flinch at what she found.

"You can and you must," Warren said, and Lorelei wondered if she imagined the sadness in his voice. She wanted to look away, to jump up and scream and run flailing out of the tent— to find somewhere to hide from Warren's unwavering eyes and those calm, steady words that she did not want to hear. "You already have, and everyone around this fire knows it, so you might as well say it."

Lorelei realised that she had stood up, and she sat back down, watching her breath leave her in a puff of vapour before the cold air of the Wilds stole its heat.

"The mages, Teyrn Loghain and his men, and Duncan— and any other Grey Wardens that we can find." She winced at the expression on Alistair's face.

"But what about the King?" The King, and Alistair's half-brother, the glory-seeker— the one who acted like he was invincible and had consistently ignored the advice of both Duncan and his strategist.

"If we can," Lorelei said softly, "We will try to rescue everyone that we are able, but—"

"But he's _the King_. We can't just leave him—"

"Alistair," Warren's voice was low and soothing and profoundly sad and it reminded Lorelei of Duncan. "As Grey Wardens, our priority is the Blight, not the preservation of Ferelden. If we can rescue the King, we will."

"But why Loghain, if not the King?" This was Carver's question, "I mean, I know he's a hero and all—"

"Teyrn Loghain is a gifted strategist and admired general," she said finally, and Morrigan snorted in derision.

" _You're_ our strategist," Lorelei winced at Alistair's statement; she was touched by his faith in her, truly, but she could not afford to ignore the truth.

"I've read books," she said finally, and Morrigan laughed. Alistair and Carver stared at her with respective looks of confusion and disbelief, and Warren offered her a small, strained smile of acknowledgement. "Loghain fought against impossible odds and won, before any of us were even born. I am at best, a child playing at tactics and politics both— Alistair, you saw the mess I left behind me at Redcliffe, and then the Circle. We are all junior Wardens, so we need guidance from Duncan and whoever else is left of our Order. Magic is key— some of the most powerful mages went to Ostagar, and we will need their support. With their firepower, they will probably also be the easiest to rescue." Lorelei threw up her hands. "All of you know these things as well as I do— what is left is to decide on who goes where, and with whom."

"I still want to rescue the King, if we can," Alistair said finally. Lorelei nodded.

"If he stays true to form," she said slowly, "He'll be at Duncan's side. If he isn't, well—"

"We'll do what we must," Alistair hesitated, then nodded grimly at Warren's pronouncement.

"It's not the Grey Warden motto, but it might as well be," Carver said, with a bitter twist of the lips that elicited a wince from mage and royal bastard both.

* * *

"We've been turned around!" Her shout was lost in the sounds of battle, and she scrambled closer to Alistair, who almost looked like he was dancing with the hurlock in front of him. "Morrigan, see if you can locate the mages!" Shifting smoothly from massive spider to crow, the witch dove out of the way of her ice spell and then up, up into the air where she could see the battlefield clearly. Lorelei turned and twisted, swinging low to avoid a sword, a large axe, a pair of tainted blades. When her back collided with another, she whirled, finding herself face-to-face with not a darkspawn, but an armoured woman with solemn, dark blue eyes and a massive sword held between them. The woman jerked her head, and Lorelei ducked low as the sword swung over her and cut the hurlock behind her clean through the middle.

When she came back up, she saw the ogre.

There was no warning the woman, so Lorelei threw herself into her, and they both tumbled to the ground, missed by the giant fist by less than a foot as it came crashing against the stone.

"Maker's—"

"That is not a creation of any Maker that I want to meet!" Lorelei shrieked, arms waving frantically as she stepped forward, then sideways, sending spirit energy outward to stun the laughing genlocks seeking to take advantage of the distraction of the ogre, then reaching for some of the devastating power that linked her to the darkspawn, and to the Archdemon that lead them.

She was finding that the power in the Taint came more easily each time she drew on it— but she'd also discovered that it was not without cost. As soon as she'd seen the dark, roughened spots of skin, usually at points where major arteries came together, she'd _known_ , somehow, and Alistair had confirmed it when she'd asked what happened when a Grey Warden grew old— well, old _er_. She did not tell him that she suspected that her time would be somewhat shorter than the expected thirty years.

The ogre swayed under her assault, and then Morrigan appeared— in the form of a giant spider falling from the sky and landing on the ogre's head. When the creature came down, Morrigan leapt off and landed beside her, transforming in mid-air.

"You've made a friend," Morrigan eyed the woman, who eyed her right back. The swamp witch smiled, then returned to blasting darkspawn while giving her report. "The mages we meant to rescue made it to the Dalish at the tree line," a genlock leaned in close and Morrigan laid her palm against its head; it then ran screaming directly into their new comrade's blade. "You were right— we have been turned around. The teams sent to rescue the king and your commander are where they should be— the boy who brought the Dwarves has come across a small group of Ash Warriors."

"Carver was supposed to find Teyrn Loghain!" Lorelei threw her arms up, sending bits of what had once been a shriek flying away from the suddenly vulnerable side of the strange sword-woman, who was now staring at her in shock.

"You— are trying to get to Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir," the woman shouted, and Lorelei nodded, then set the long gash in her arm knitting itself back together. There was no time to dwell on the strange note in her voice as she'd spoken the Teyrn's name, but Lorelei tucked it away for later.

"I suppose we are now," Lorelei shouted back, then to Morrigan, "Where did you say that Alistair was?" Morrigan flung an arm in a general direction, and the three of them began to cut down tainted bodies between them and her comrade.

When they reached Alistair, he was being lifted to his feet by none other than the Teyrn himself. He was shouting, his words lost in the fray, and then the warrior beside Lorelei surged forward.

When she saw them together, she realised exactly who the woman was— and was distracted enough that when Seeker's ragged, howling half-scream rang out, she was surprised to find the former-werewolf taking a blow that had been very much meant for her.

The hurlock responsible began to smoke and shriek, and fell in a pile of dust at Lorelei's feet as she set to healing the once-werewolf. The Grey Warden mage allowed herself a peek up at Morrigan's scowling face, and realised that Morrigan tended to be particularly viscious in defense of her "favourites" within the group— of which the Seeker was a one.

There was no time to do a proper job of it, and the Seeker pulled away, not willing to be kept from battle for something as trivial as preventing scars.

* * *

"And so, I owe you my life again, Grey Warden." The King had lost none of his charm, even injured as he was, and Lorelei smiled with the absent-minded politeness of any healer when presented with conversation while tending to a patient. "I seem to be accumulating quite the debt." Cailan winced as he was helped out of his armour, and Lorelei immediately began to remove the blood-soaked bandages around his chest, pangs of sympathy coming to life in her own chest as more of the injury became visible.

"This was good work," she noted, gesturing to the neat line of stitches holding closed what could have been the end of His Majesty. Someone had tended to the wound using health balms and stitching and bandages, and even still Lorelei could see the swelling and redness at the edges of the puckered skin that heralded an infection.

"It was one of your brethren— brusque fellow named Richu, I think—" the King flinched as she pulled out a small, sharp blade, and Lorelei went still as a heavy hand landed on her shoulder, then gripped her arm. "He stitched me up and applied the bandages."

"I will have to cut the stitches," she explained, and when the King nodded, the hand was reluctantly removed from Lorelei's arm. Remembering an admonishment she'd once received from Warren, she ignored the bruises already forming under her sleeve and focussed her attention— and spells— on healing the King. It was done carefully, of course, but the scar that remained— thin as it was— reminded her of her own shortcomings when it came to healing magics. Wynne and Anders were both far more gifted in the area than she, but they were occupied treating those who would be quite dead without magical intervention. That the King had Lorelei at all was due to his stature, and his continued insistence that he would continue to fight on the front lines until the Blight was ended.

Lorelei stepped out of the tent and nearly collided with a tired, dirty man in messenger's clothing— royal messenger's clothing, if she was correct— clutching missives in his hand and declaring urgent business with the King. She let Cailan's guard take over and aimed herself in the direction of the camp's official infirmary, where Anders and Wynne were likely to appreciate an extra set of healing hands.

If there were a private enough place to do so, Lorelei would have admitted— very, very quietly— that the King was rather dismissive of the risks he took, perhaps because he had yet to actually pay the price for any of them. As it was, she held her tongue and wished that they'd been able to rescue Duncan and the other Grey Wardens, and that Shale hadn't disappeared into the middle of the sea of darkspawn, where they dare not even send Morrigan to look for the golem, massive as she was.

Lorelei hoped that the need for healers would postpone the upcoming— and unavoidable— _conversation_ with Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir. She was small, she was soft-spoken, and— in the absence of Duncan or any Grey Warden other than Alistair who was senior to her— the unwilling, untested leader of Ferelden's Grey Wardens. She was far more mouse than dragon-slayer, and no one was more aware of that fact than she. Loghain would probably lift one shiny boot and crush her like a single blade of grass.


	10. Consequences of Influence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get complicated.

"Warden Lorelei, formerly of the Circle," Lorelei paused mid-step, then turned to face the calm and unhurried man who had once run the stock room with what she'd call 'unmatched efficiency' if she hadn't had as much experience as she had with the Tranquil.

"Greetings, Owain," she said gently— not with pity, simply gently, as the Rite of Tranquility took away much of the appreciation for emotions as well as the emotions themselves. "What is it that you need?"

"I was asked to pass along a message," there was something about him that hinted at displeasure, perhaps disappointment, but it was difficult to tell which. "The First Enchanter wishes to speak with you on a matter most urgent."

"You seem—" she gestured, not sure which words to use, "Uncomfortable about something— has something happened to upset you?"

"I lack the ability to feel truly 'upset', as you know," Owain answered, movements stiff instead of merely economical. "But you are correct: I am... uncomfortable. I am not a messenger. I wish to return to my stockroom. Things may become disordered without my oversight." Lorelei's mouth twitched slightly.

It was a common misconception that because the Tranquil were without emotions, that they were without free will and preference as well— that they were monotonous, people-shaped creatures that waited for an order like an empty glass awaits water. Anyone who spent significant chunks of time with them (and many didn't, unnerved by their manner— and in the case of mages, by the very nature of what they were) knew that this was, quite simply, _false_. There were Tranquil mages that preferred enchanting, crafts, building, animal husbandry (specifically Mabari breeding, if one was in Ferelden) and in Owain's case, _making lists_ and organizing objects. Delivering messages was not something that Owain, in particular, enjoyed doing, and Lorelei wondered if the First Enchanter wasn't a bit off his head, dragging the storeroom administrator to Ostagar.

"Should I say something to the First Enchanter?" Owain shook his head.

"It is not necessary. I do not imagine that anything would come of it, and perhaps it will cause more fuss than it is worth." Lorelei nodded. "I do appreciate the offer, however; thank you." With a shallow bow— which she returned— Owain was gone, presumably to deliver other messages or to return to whatever post he had been given. Lorelei sighed, wondering if Irving had meant the unspoken— but still painfully clear— threat in sending a Tranquil mage with his message or if he had just assumed, as many often did, that the Tranquil were little more than mindless servants. It did not seem like the First Enchanter to be so thoughtless, and yet, she did not want to believe that he would threaten her, even after she had threatened him— and she had imagined that he would be more subtle.

It was in that moment that she realised that Owain had not said that Irving himself had sent the message, only that he had been asked to deliver it. Lorelei took a deep breath to steady herself. Yes, that particular ploy was a lot more in line with Uldred's methods than with Irving's, as was the supposition on the lack of a free will in a Tranquil mage. If the First Enchanter had told the ambitious Senior Enchanter of her blackmail, it would make sense for him to react this way, hoping to eliminate any threat that she posed to his plans.

She was halfway to the Circle's encampment when a large shape crashed through the trees, crushing them under its feet like they were twigs, and she was staring up into the eerily glowing eyes of the golem, Shale.

When she saw what the creature held in its massive stone hands, she was immediately screaming for Anders, Wynne— and Alistair, because there was no way that he would forgive anyone not telling him immediately that somehow, Duncan had managed to survive the carnage of Ostagar— and the camp became somewhat more chaotic around her.

She barely registered another form behind Shale, so absorbed as she was with calling for the healers, but before she could get more than an impression of blue, blue eyes, the shadow had disappeared back into the forest, and the odd feeling in her blood lessened by an almost imperceptible degree.

* * *

Lorelei pressed the heels of her hands against her temples, then tried again.

"Wynne, if you can't work with Anders, then I will take your place." The older woman's lips parted, apparently in shock, as she looked from Anders to Lorelei.

"I was just—"

"Being a nosy old biddy," Anders supplied, and Lorelei held her hand up in warning. She was having enough trouble keeping Alistair from tearing the tent down around them without having to mediate as the two healers bickered over who was in charge, especially since _neither of them actually was_.

"Whatever it is," Lorelei said, pausing to take a breath when her voice wavered, "It can be dealt with later. For now, if you could occupy yourself with the patient? The one who is _currently dying_?" The last two words were whispered so that Alistair, pacing anxiously outside, wouldn't overhear. Lorelei chanted softly and watched as her magic— faded and slightly blue, or perhaps violet— settled into the broken body of the Warden-Commander of Ferelden. His breathing was ragged, his face was pinched tight, and he jerked every now and again, pulling at injuries as he struggled against some unseen nightmare. Lorelei considered stepping into the Fade, but had decided— on the advice of Warren— to keep her ability as secret as possible. She hadn't even told Carver.

Few templars had survived from those stationed at Ostagar, but this had made the new arrivals particularly jumpy about magic.

"Yes, perhaps you can put your attitude aside, young man."

" _Wynne_ ," Lorelei had rarely had any problems with the Senior Enchanter, mostly because she'd had the luxury of being able to ignore her more frustrating traits— one of which being a tendency to hover, lecture, and sometimes, _gloat_ , to a degree that actually distinguished her from the other Enchanters of the Circle. "This is not the time or the place."

"Yes, I—"

"Heal, or leave." Wynne's mouth snapped shut, and Lorelei knew that the Senior Enchanter would likely have _words_ for her later. She gestured to Duncan, who was wheezing, and to Anders, who was already sending a wash of gold-and-silver light into his body, and after one last glare, Wynne turned her back to Lorelei and added her own magic to his. Lorelei noticed that Wynne's magic had a yellow cast to it— not gold, yellow— not unlike sunlight, or the animal brightness that was present in Seeker's eyes and not in Morrigan's.

Lorelei was running her hand from her forehead to her chin when she exited the tent, and did not notice that Alistair was directly in her path. As he turned toward her, they collided, then went down in a tangle of limbs. As Alistair's half of the pile was encased in metal, it did not end terribly well for Lorelei, who had always bruised easily.

"I'm— so sorry, I— how is he?" Alistair lifted her to her feet, setting her down with exaggerated care.

"Wynne and Anders are finally working together," she explained, "I imagine that if they can't cure him, no one can." Lorelei cast a quick spell on herself and watched her own bruises fade away.

"Where is the healer?" The voice was thickly Orlesian, and its owner matched it, meaty enough that Lorelei was certain that his armour, melted down, could be made into three separate sets. "I require healing!"

"Perhaps I can help you," Lorelei used as temperate a voice as she could, noticing quickly that his complaint was rather minor, considering his demands— the was almost purely cosmetic. He had several thin scratches across his face, and from the state of his armour, he had dressed hastily. She wondered if he had scratches anywhere else, and immediately felt a little green at the thought.

"I demand the best," his mouth formed an admirable moue, and he decorated most of Lorelei's front with his spittle. "I require a mage's healing, not the attention of some low-born chit." He continued to mutter in Orlesian, and had almost made it into the tent before Lorelei spoke again, wondering why so many people missed the obvious— she was still clearly dressed in robes, though constant engagements with darkspawn and wildlife had left them decidedly less fine than when she'd first aquired them.

"Ser," Lorelei said sharply, and the man slowly turned— leer in place and hand upraised. "I would re-think that, were I you." His response was quick, curt, and in Orlesian, but his tone was clear, and Alistair's hand was already on the hilt of his sword. When the meaty hand came down, Lorelei wasn't waiting for it.

Her staff was off her back and in her hands, and she jabbed forward, burying the butt in the space just under his belt buckle. He doubled over, eyes wide with shock and pain, and she channeled spirit energy through the staff, flinging him away from her like a paper doll. He landed on his back in the mud, and it made sucking and slurping noises as he struggled. For good measure, she added a glyph of paralysis before approaching and leaning over him.

"For that, you can keep your scratches, you obnoxious, high-born _ass_ ," she snapped, then gestured for Alistair to guard the tent as she followed the chevalier's huge footprints, first towards his tent— and then, nursing a growing sense of dread, towards the separate encampment of the Dalish.

Lorelei had the distinct feeling that, Shale's miraculous return with Duncan aside, this was not going to be a day that she remembered with great fondness.

* * *

"Those are not men of honour, they are— they are _pigs on horses_!" At Lanaya's raised voice, Lorelei broke into a run, reaching the camp just as the King arrived, the visibly irate Teyrn standing just behind him. Lanaya noticed Lorelei, and re-aimed her appeal. "Grey Warden, surely you can do something."

"This is does not concern the Grey Wardens." The man's tone was dismissive, as most of the Orlesian Knights had been toward the Grey Wardens. Lanaya's knuckles were white as she gripped her staff, and if looks could kill, the Orlesian Captain would have fallen down dead, right there. "You will control your people, Keeper."

"You will control yours, or we will leave."

"You are bound by—"

"Teyrn Loghain, King Cailan," the tall man looked down at her like she was a child, and she fought the urge to stumble back, look down and apologise for interrupting an adult conversation. Cailan, to his credit, was as warm and welcoming as ever, though some of his shine had been diminished by the hard losses of Ostagar. When she stood her ground, he glanced briefly toward the Orlesian Captain before fixing Lorelei with an icy glare.

"If I can convince Lanaya, would it be possible for the Dalish to move their camp closer to your—" she winced, "—to where your remaining soldiers and the Ash Warriors have camped?" Loghain's brows shot up, and she hoped that she hadn't stepped too far out of line. Lanaya and the Captain were still bickering, their arguments punctuated by Orlesian and Elvish both.

"I have no objection," Loghain said finally, and Lorelei frowned, wondering if she imagined the hint of a smile at the edges of his mouth, "Your Majesty?"

"Hm? Yes, of course. I am excited for the opportunity to get to know my Dalish subjects better." Lorelei winced, and then noticed that Loghain had shared her expression. They stared at each other in surprise for a few moments.

"My people are bound by treaty to _the Grey Wardens_ , and we agreed to aid against the Blight, not submit to abuse," Lanaya was saying, and her staff was beginning to spark. Lorelei felt that this was as good a cue as any to re-join the conversation; it would be better for this to be resolved before Lanaya's magic caught the attention of the ever-vigilant templars.

"Keeper Lanaya, Captain," Lorelei said, trying her most diplomatic smile, "Perhaps I can suggest a solution."

"You have no business here, recruit," the Captain said sternly, "The Grey Wardens do not involve themselves in petty disputes— and besides, my men have done _nothing wrong_ ," he finished, glaring at Lanaya.

"One of your men," Lorelei supplied helpfully, "Is currently immobilized by the healer's tent, with scratches so minor that it is a waste of any healer's time to treat them. Perhaps you should send for someone to collect him."

"What have you done, recruit?"

"I defended myself, _Captain_ ," Lorelei was quickly losing her patience, and she shared a sympathetic look with the Dalish Keeper, who— especially considering her experiences with humans— was showing the restraint of a saint. "The man insisted on interrupting Wynne and Anders, who are healing a critically injured man, even after I offered to take a look at his injuries." She glanced at Loghain and quickly understood that repeating the words that the man had used to describe her— perhaps especially in the language that he had spoken them— was not the best course of action, unless she wanted the situation to escalate into outright war. "He said several very impolite things and attacked me. My Brother Alistair will confirm it, as he was there." She paused, then turned pointedly to Lanaya. "Were any of your people injured?"

"Some, but we will tend to our own," was the careful answer, and Lorelei nodded. "Warden," and here, the Dalish Keeper pointedly ignored the Captain, who was not at all happy about it, "We wish to provide what help we can to end the Blight, but that does not include indulging the whims of lustful shemlen."

"Of course not." Lorelei had received a full report on this particular Dalish clan, and from Neria— on Lanaya in particular. She would no more suggest that the Elves submit than she would suggest that Loghain be sent as a diplomatic attache to Val Royeaux. "The King and the Teyrn have said that they won't object to the Dalish setting up their encampment closer to them, to the west, perhaps."

"That puts us uncomfortably close to your Chantry's camp, but— that is acceptable, for now." Lanaya shot a glare at the Captain, who was trying to stare holes in Lorelei's head, before bowing courteously and departing to prepare for the move.

"The Grey Wardens are not _negotiators_ ," the Captain said, distaste in his voice making evident what he thought of the Order. He seemed to forget his audience completely, and Lorelei did her best to do the same, knowing that Loghain, in particular, would be watching her very closely. "If you were one of my men, you would be put to the lash for insubordination, _recruit_."

"Then it is a good thing that I am _not_ one of your men," Lorelei shot back, "As you know, a _recruit_ is one who has not yet undertaken the Joining. It is an insult to refer to me as such, especially given that you yourself have yet to fight in any major battle against the darkspawn."

"You will respect my command—"

"It's not _your_ command," she snapped, completely forgetting her audience, "This is _not Orlais_. You are not a Grey Warden, and until you have orders from the First Warden in Weisshaupt declaring you the Warden-Commander of Ferelden, _I do not answer to you_."

"Listen, you little chit—" His tirade was cut off with a strangled sound as he was shoved backward by an invisible force and found himself struggling to rise from the mud. Like the fat chevalier near the tent where Anders and Wynne alternated between healing Duncan and bickering over who was in charge and how it should be done, Lorelei cast a glyph of paralysis.

"You have done nothing to earn my respect. You have done nothing to earn the right to command. You have done nothing but belittle our efforts, make bad jokes about dog lords, barbarians, the character of the Grey Wardens, and the 'inferior' stature and status of Dwarves and Elves. You seem determined to make enemies of our allies. Allies that are here only because we asked them to help us, and they answered our need. Allies without whom the entire Ferelden army, its King, and its best general would _all be dead_." In some corner of her mind, Lorelei was remembering that two of the people of whom she spoke were a part of her audience, and the part of her that was capable of it was absolutely mortified at her display of temper. She was not accustomed to losing her temper. She was not accustomed to _having_ a temper to lose. "You act like you and that fancy contingent of the Empress's Chevaliers are riding in to the rescue, but you are merely swooping in to claim a credit that is not yours to claim. You seem to be under the impression that everyone will simply stand by and let you sabotage the war for your own glory. I am telling you right now that _I will not allow it_."

The world flickered in front of her, and Lorelei realised that she had— albeit briefly— stepped into the Veil. She stepped back, and felt the soft squelching sound that heralded the return of her feet to the mud.

"How dare you—" The paralysis spell had worn off. Lorelei recast it.

"Instead of composing a proper speech of outrage, perhaps you should pay attention to what I am telling you: The Elves will not follow your orders. The Dwarves will not follow your orders. You may take your chances with the Circle, if you wish, but were I you, I would not count that as a sure thing. Should _Warden-Commander_ _Duncan_ see me as deserving of punishment, I will submit as is my duty, but that is _his_ call to make, when he recovers. Either you will fall in line and do your part of what must be done to end the Blight or I _assure_ you, I will make it extremely difficult for you to do _anything else_. Despite all your bluster, you hold no great authority here, and it is about time that you remembered that."

Lorelei took a deep breath, feeling her magic settle as her rage dissipated and her awareness of her surroundings— and subsequent mortification— grew.

When someone started clapping, she made a quick, undignified escape to go with her equally undignified squeak of embarrassment and surprise.

* * *

Lorelei would have prefered to spend some time alone to center herself, but before she could make it out of the camp and into the forest, she one of the very last people that she wanted to see appeared in her path.

She considered taking advantage of the fact that he wasn't facing her, but he had a firm grip on Jowan's arm, and was motioning towards one of the templars attached to the Circle. Lorelei straightened her shoulders and allowed herself the tiniest moment to indulge in the very uncharitable regret that Uldred had been one of the mages who had made it to the Dalish.

"Senior Enchanter," she spoke in her sharpest, firmest voice, and Uldred turned, acknowledging her with a sneer.

"Warden," he sad smoothly, "I am glad to see that you have returned this blood mage and apostate to the Circle to face justice."

"You know that I have done no such thing," she held out a hand to stay the helmetted templar with his sword already half-drawn. "Jowan is under the protection of the Grey Wardens."

"Is that so?" Uldred's eyes were narrowed, and his smirk made her feel ill, "I don't recall any talk of new recruits— or of any plans for a Joining."

"You are not a Grey Warden," Lorelei hated using the obvious to make her point, but when she couldn't think of something better to say, she used it to buy herself time.

"The Grey Wardens would recruit a _blood mage_?" The templar spoke in a low his, and Lorelei whirled, noticing that several more inches of his sword were free from its scabbard.

"Who the Grey Wardens recruit is not your concern," she tried to keep her eyes on both Uldred and the templar as she spoke, "Only that Jowan is one such and therefore— also not your concern."

"So the Grey Wardens encourage blood mages within their ranks."

"The Grey Wardens are not the Circle of Magi. Our purpose is to defeat the darkspawn, in case you've forgotten, Senior Enchanter."

"Still, surely you have retained some of the lessons of the Circle—"

"Uldred," the suddenly informal address was pointed, and she drew closer to the bald man, lowering her voice, "Unless you'd care to roll up your own sleeves, this conversation is over." The Senior Enchanter stepped back, then, staring at her with new eyes— and far too much cunning for her liking. If she hadn't already made an enemy of Uldred, his status as such was now certain.

"Very well, Grey Warden," he said finally, and Lorelei quickly took Jowan's hand and guided him towards the Grey Warden's camp.

"Thank you," Jowan whispered, and Lorelei silenced him with a sharp look.

"Jowan, from now on, make sure that you are never alone." His face fell, and Lorelei realised immediately that he'd missed her meaning.

"I— yes, of course. I understand."

"No, you don't," she checked for eavesdroppers, found none, and began again, "You know that Uldred is up to no good, and with the Chantry's reaction to even the suggestion of blood magic." She sighed, "You're a recruit, now. I figured that it would eventually be necessary, but I had hoped— well."

"You don't think I'll make a good Grey Warden." Lorelei rolled her eyes, and resisted the urge to slap him. Instead, she stared him straight in the face, and spoke slowly and carefully.

"Becoming a Grey Warden comes with substantial cost. I was hoping that you would not be asked to pay that price." He blinked, seemingly stunned at the idea that anyone would be protective of him. "Jowan. You have already proven yourself to _me_. I believe that you are capable of making an excellent Grey Warden, and I will do my best to ensure that you get that chance."

"I— don't know what to say."

"So don't say anything," she answered, allowing herself a small smile, "You talk too much, anyway."

* * *

Lorelei snuck a glance at Alistair, who had needed to be ordered away from Duncan's side to attend a meeting that had the Ferelden Grey Wardens feeling particularly mutinous, and for what she believed to be good reason.

Lorelei and Warren had been pulled away in the middle of a strategy meeting. Carver had been speaking to Wesley Vallen about his deceased wife and Theron was trying to keep the Dalish from seeking vengeance against the Chevaliers. They had thought, at first, that if the Grey Wardens of Orlais— the more senior members of an order bound by darkspawn blood— were calling them to an urgent meeting, that it would be of vital importance.

Perhaps, to the Orlesians, it was, but Lorelei didn't find the experience of standing in a line while she and her comrades were given a thorough dressing down and threatened with the lash or re-assignment to Weisshaupt or some other faraway branch terribly necessary or appropriate. One glance at Warren's made-of-stone expression told her that he was equally displeased. Out of all of them, Carver and Alistair took the verbal assaults the hardest, especially when the Orlesian Warden-Commander implied that the former was responsible for Aveline's death and that the latter was a disappointment to Duncan, who even still frequently required the attention of Wynne or Anders.

It made Lorelei angry, just as the Chevalier-Captain's casual dismissal of his men's abuse of the Dalish Elves had. She bit the inside of her bottom lip to keep herself for losing her temper for the second time that day— and _that_ would likely have disastrous results. There would be shouting and spells, and probably smiting.

Once they had finished going over everything that they done wrong, how much of an embarrassment they were to the order, and how much work the much more competent Orlesians would have to do to repair the damage, they let the junior Wardens stand there while they huddled together, speaking in very low, very rapid Orlesian. Lorelei inclined her head forward slightly, watching her superiors converse through her eyelashes.

She glanced to either side, noticing that the others had copied her, and then concentrated on the conversation that they were all being— quite pointedly— left out of.

The gesture was insulting, but that sting of irritation was nothing compared to the anger that was roused when their discussion continued and Lorelei learned more of their intent.

* * *

"I tried to save her," Carver was the first to speak, and he waved off any of their attempts to shush him. "I carried her back to Orzammar, from the Deep Roads. We had a funeral for her— a pyre, at Gherlen's pass."

"Carver—"

"I know it's my fault. She took a blow meant for me. I—" Lorelei lunged forward, pressing her palms against his breastplate and shoving him lightly.

"Carver!" He blinked, then stared down at her as if surprised to find her there. She withdrew immediately, somewhat shocked at her own boldness. "Carver, it wasn't your fault. You were in the Deep Roads facing darkspawn and golems without a healer and— it was _not_ your fault."

"They said—"

"They said what they thought that they needed to say," Warren said evenly, levelling a long, meaningful look at Carver and Alistair both. "They are trying to sideline us, make us feel unworthy."

"And then swoop in and take all the credit!"

"No, it's more than that." Lorelei was shaking her head, fitting bits and pieces together in her head. "I think it's about more than the Blight."

"More than the Blight? But—"

"Idiots." Theron's upper lip curled upward in disgust, as if the one word and his tone of voice didn't make his opinion plain enough. "They scheme and plan while the darkspawn seek to destroy us all."

"Wait—" Carver made a face at her, "How do you know this?" Lorelei glanced at Warren, and then at Alistair, who promptly brought his gauntletted fist up to his forehead with painful force.

"Of course!" He exclaimed, sharing a wide grin of gratitude as she healed the darkening bruise on his forehead, " _You_ understand Orlesian."

"So does Theron," Lorelei pointed out, and the Dalish Elf inclined his head slightly.

"I know enough to discern their point," he admitted, "Our clan did cross borders on occasion— though I've hardly a mastery of the language."

"What? Really?" Carver was visibly impressed, and she felt her face growing warm from the attention.

"I was born in Orlais, so it's hardly a huge accomplishment," she said dismissively, and she continued before the obvious questions could surface. "Let's go talk to Duncan. Anders told me, earlier, that he might wake up tonight." At this suggestion, Alistair brightened considerably, and the heavy mood seemed to lift, just a little— just enough for them all to share a moment of sneaky, underhanded glee.

* * *

"So— the darkspawn reproduce by—" Alistair was unable to continue, and Lorelei looked around, finding that the other faces were as pallid as his. "That's— it's too horrible to even—" Lorelei had a different concern.

"If Grey Wardens all succumb to the Taint eventually," she said, trying to keep the hitch in her breath under control as she thought of the patches of blight-rash on her skin, "Do the women become ghouls, or— I'm sorry." She had to push past Alistair slightly to get outside as she removed herself from the small circle of bodies crouched inside a small tent, hoarding the light of the small lantern inside. She used the full length of her legs to propel herself to the edge of the camp and into the trees where she relieved herself of the contents of her churning stomach.

When she made her way back to the tent, the massive stone creature standing guard shifted, and she forced herself still, lest she jump out of her skin.

"How fragile it is," Lorelei blinked at the low, gravelly voice, "One touch and its kind crumples, spilling liquid everywhere." She paused, considering the statement, and then laughed, just a little.

"I have particular problems with that, I must admit."

"I feel very sorry for it." Lorelei stepped back, craning her neck as far back as she could so that she could get a good look at the golem's eerie bright eyes. It was hard not to consider the creature, especially after hearing about Caridin's description of the process of using a living Dwarf to create one. She did not have the words to do justice to that incredible sacrifice, so she said nothing of it, simply doing her best to honour Shale in her mind. "It is not solid, as I am, or immortal. No putrid liquids will ever squirt out of me, oh no." Shale shifted again, and Lorelei once again experienced the sensation of being watched intently. "It is a mage, is it not?"

"Yes."

"Does it wish it had my control rod?" Lorelei blinked several times, and stepped back in horror.

"No."

"No? Truly?" Lorelei was shaking her head violently. "Hm. Is it a fool? Does it not think a golem such as I is useful?"

"I have no desire to control anything that way, most especially— a thinking being. It is— absolutely abhorrent."

"Is it not a Grey Warden?" Shale shifted again, and the ground rumbled as the golem knelt, bringing its head closer to Lorelei's— though not very close, as Shale was still massive, and the little mage-girl was anything but. "Does it not— what is it that they say— do what it must?"

"Didn't you agree to come with Carver and fight the darkspawn?"

"Oh ho! It thinks that it is clever," Lorelei wondered if the strange grinding noise doubled for laughter, "Does it think this answers the question? I am willing to fight for it, so it does not need to consider the possibility of creating new a control rod?"

"Why did you save Duncan?"

"That is its leader, the flesh creature that I brought back?" Lorelei nodded. Shale's massive shoulders lifted in a gesture that she realised was a shrug. "The darkspawn wanted it, and the other like it." That, she found troubling, and she thought back to the observation that she'd made after that first, devastating battle about the lack of Grey Warden corpses left on the field. Why would the darkspawn specifically take the Grey Wardens from the battlefield? "The darkspawn wanted it, so I decided that it must have value of some kind. It is not as pretty as crystals, but it was also not as squishy as the little mage Warden, so perhaps I did well to retrieve it."

"Your name is Shale, right?"

"It is."

"My name is Lorelei."

"Does it think this matters?"

"No," Lorelei smiled, then, realising that conversing with Shale was not unlike conversing with Sten, "But knowing my name gives you the opportunity to use it, should you wish to."

"Why would I?"

"It is another choice that, like your reason for it, is your own." The ground shuddered as Shale returned to her full height.

"It is very strange."

"I've heard that before— if you don't mind, Shale, I must return to the others."

"Why would I care what it does? As long as it does not have a chisel, I am unconcerned." There was a story behind the comment, she was sure. Lorelei smiled to herself, glad for the short time away from Carver's story of the Deep Roads, doomed Dwarves, and what the Taint did to women. Just before she reached the tent, she paused, listening briefly as the golem muttered in her absence. "Lore-a-lie. It sounds like a historical falsehood."

That was how she managed to returned to the grim-faced group with a smile.

* * *

"Welcome to the War Council, Grey Wardens," Loghain didn't look up from his maps as he spoke, but he shifted slightly, nodding towards those who moved out of the way to allow them passage— Lorelei, Warren, Carver, Alistair— the last in a sudden display protectiveness for the first, which she found somewhat confusing.

"Where's the King? And the—" Alistair trailed off, realising at the last moment that asking after the Orlesians was probably not the best idea that he'd ever had.

"The King is currently entertaining our visitors," the Teyrn's voice was dry, and more than a little angry. Lorelei winced, but said nothing, not wanting to get into a discussion about politics.

"Why call us here, instead of—" Loghain snorted.

"Those Orlesian fools seem to be under the impression that they are in charge," he explained, and when Lorelei glanced briefly at Warren, he lifted his chin slightly to indicate the Teyrn, and she returned her gaze to the Hero of River Dane, "But interestingly enough, our other allies seem perfectly willing to talk tactics without them— provided _you_ are included." Loghain straightened to his full height, and as the shadows shifted over his face, Lorelei realised that he was almost smiling. "It seems that it is to you specifically that they feel indebted, not to your legendary order as a whole, nor to our glorious King." If she could have arched one eyebrow, she would have done it at the way Loghain pronounced 'legendary order' and 'glorious'. As it was, the Teyrn's attention was heavy, and he aimed it at all of them in turn. It landed last and stayed longest on Lorelei.

"...Your grace?" She spoke only after realising that he seemed to be waiting for a response.

"I have been told that you fancy yourself a strategist," he said finally, gesturing for her to come closer— a daunting prospect, even with a large table between them.

"I— hardly," she choked out, and he arched a thin, black eyebrow, adding himself to her internal list of people that could do things that she wished she could.

"You planned the last major victory— the extraction of key forces from Ostagar— did you not?"

"And I mucked up my part of it," Alistair was choking, then, and Lorelei put her hand over her mouth, realising too late that 'mucking up' her plan had, in fact, been what had saved the Teyrn of Gwaren and what was left of his best soldiers— including his second, Cauthrien— from death by darkspawn.

"Your ability to navigate successfully among a throng of darkspawn aside," Loghain said finally, a muscle at his jaw twitching slightly as he spoke with surprising care, "It was an impressive effort, and it ultimately succeeded, mad as it was." Loghain gestured again for her to come forward, and this time, she did. She looked down at the map and forced herself to pay attention to the notations and small markers depicting their forces rather than the map itself— it was extremely well-made, and beautiful, in the way that maps could be considered beautiful. Lorelei blinked, sweeping her eyes from one end of the map to the other, trying to work out the formations and movement patterns in her head. They were familiar, and she had a feeling that she needed to discern why, and quickly.

"Well?" Loghain's voice was rough and impatient, and Lorelei glanced up— and up— into his very blue, very serious eyes. She frowned, realising where she'd seen these particular formations before— on a different map.

"Why are you showing us the Battle of West Hill?" There was a tiny movement at the edge of his lips, but other than that, his expression might as well have been carved of stone. She returned her gaze to the map, trying to fit the pieces together in her mind, then jumped as Loghain began to rearrange the figures, apparently satisfied with her question, even if he did not grace her with an answer. She felt distinctly like she had passed some sort of test, and as he began to explain his true plan, she felt every bit the novice strategist she was.

It was complex, it was risky, it would probably frustrate and confuse the King and enrage all the Orlesians in the camp— except perhaps Leliana and Lorelei herself.

And she was beginning to believe that it might actually work.

* * *

"A moment, Warden, if you please." Even before she turned around Lorelei knew— all four of them turned around, as 'Warden' applied equally to all of them— that the Teyrn was addressing her, specifically. This was confirmed when he waved the others off. Warren shrugged and walked out, followed by Carver. Alistair took a few steps, but stopped just short of exiting the tent.

"What can I do for you, your grace?"

"There is something that I wish to discuss with you privately," Loghain eyed Alistair with raised eyebrows, then made a shooing motion. The almost templar bristled visibly.

"I don't think that's—" Loghain snorted, as if he found Alistair's objection patently ridiculous.

"I'm not going to eat her, boy," he snapped, "She's perfectly safe, I assure you. I will even have an escort assigned to her when she returns to your camp."

"But I—"

"I did not ask for your opinion or your permission, Warden."

"Alistair, it's fine," she stepped forward, hand out, fingers slightly curled.

"It's not fine," he stepped toward her, and she frowned at the look on his face. He was concerned for her. "What about the Senior Grey Wardens? What about—"

"Alistair." He stopped, then, and she smiled in an attempt to reassure him. He glanced over her shoulder at the Teyrn, who she imagined was not terribly impressed by the spectacle. His face confirmed her suspicion neatly: annoyed, perhaps even amused, but not impressed in the slightest.

"All right," he sighed, and smiled— but there was something in his face that mutinied against his expression. "I'll wait for you at our camp." He glanced at Loghain again, and she nearly rolled her eyes at his attempt to glare menacingly at the tall man before he left the tent. It was, of course, far more intimidating than anything she could have managed, but it was hardly something that could be expected to cause Loghain Mac Tir to cower.

"That boy is enamoured with you," Lorelei laughed out loud before she could stop herself, but her amusement died as soon as she turned around and saw that Loghain's expression lacked any trace of humour. He leaned back, away from the chair that he'd pulled from the table and placed to the side, directly in front of another.

"Alistair is a brother and a comrade," she said, and his lips twitched. The eyebrow lifted again.

"I suppose you believe that," he said finally, briefly pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. "Never mind. It is no matter." He made a slicing motion with his hand, emphasized by the lamp-light flickering across the grooves and joints of his gauntlet.

"Yes, of course," she shrugged, then took the seat that he indicated for her before sitting himself. The chairs were close enough together that his knees brushed hers as he sat down. He leaned forward, and she fought the urge to lean back in response, instead doing her best to meet his intense gaze with a level one of her own. "What is it that you wished to discuss, your grace?"

"I wish to discuss your Order, Warden—" Loghain spoke very slowly, and she stiffened, sensing something distinctly dangerous about him as he leaned even closer, palms on his knees, "—and the distinct lack of interest displayed by its more senior members when it comes to actually defeating this Blight, and building a future for itself in Ferelden."

"Is there a specific question that I can answer for you, your grace?" He did not blink; he simply stared at her and she stayed still until she was sure that she would drool all over herself if she didn't swallow.

"Yes; there are several— let's start with an easy one: why is it that only the most junior members of the Order seem interested in maintaining the alliances that you were specifically sent to make in order to end the Blight before it overwhelms Ferelden?" She blinked, finding that she no longer had the urge to swallow.

"The answer is simpler than your question: I don't know."

"You don't—" Loghain's eyes narrowed as they swept over her face, looking for any signs of deception. His frown deepened, leading her to assume that he couldn't find any. "You don't know," he mused, "Now that _is_ interesting, isn't it?"

"I suppose that it is."

* * *

"So what did he want?"

"Isn't it obvious?" Lorelei studied the Dwarf, taking in the wild red hair and the wide, suggestive leer he wore as he leaned forward, using a huge axe for balance. He wiggled his eyebrows at her; she made a disgusted face, but it only seemed to encourage him. "That Loghain is one of the most uptight men I've ever met. Probably did him some good."

"I don't think—"

"Heh heh. So, you and the tall one. Rolling the oats?" Lorelei felt her chin drop, and her lower lip with it, at the man's presumption.

"What—" Alistair was looking from Lorelei to the Dwarf to Anders, who was obviously holding back laughter.

"Polishing the footstones? Bucking the forbidden horse? Tapping the midnight still?"

"Enough," Lorelei said finally, rubbing the space between her eyebrows, "I don't know if you have some large collection of disgusting euphemisms, but let's just pretend that you've already shared them all, and we're all suitably impressed. It has been a long day— and the Teyrn is not an easy man to satisfy." She closed her mouth with a snap when she realised what she'd just said, and Anders and the Dwarf both chortled.

"Oh, I like this one," he said, nodding, "If you ever want to trade in these nug-humpers for the Prize of Orzammar, I am just the right height to—" He clearly wasn't finished, but speaking was rather difficult when one was flying through the air and landing in a heap of drunken Dwarf. He laughed as he struggled to his feet. "You just let me know if you change your mind, ey? Ol' Oghren will do you right."

"You'll be the first to know," she said dryly, pulling her outstretched hands back to her body and brushing off her robes. "Alistair, where are the others? We need to have a meeting of the Ferelden Grey Wardens." Alistair blinked, then nodded, gesturing to the tent where they usually had their clandestine little talks. Lorelei crouched down and slipped into place, nodding to each of them in turn as Alistair came in behind her and took his place beside her.

"Things are getting— very complicated," she said quickly, and in her lowest voice. She had a feeling that the whole thing was far more _complicated_ than even she knew.

* * *

Lorelei carefully closed the flap of the tent behind her, and when she turned around, she jumped, hand muffling her cry of surprise. The man sitting with Duncan turned to face her, amused grey eyes looking her over and taking in every detail. She watched him right back, kicking herself internally for not checking, not listening to the hum of the Taint telling her about the presence of a second Grey Warden in the tent with Duncan.

"You have a visitor, Duncan," the man said, lips curving into a warm smile. His accent was light, and his voice smooth— the voice of a man who was accustomed to talking, and perhaps to laying on the charm. "You are Lorelei, are you not? I have heard a great deal about you already." He rose to his feet, and she immediately noticed his casual, practiced grace. This was a man who moved quickly, and perhaps danced as well as he fought. He offered her a hand, and she took it. "I am Riordan."

"It's— a pleasure." His mouth twitched. "Forgive me—- Riordan." She glanced past him, to Duncan, who was smiling weakly. "I didn't know that I was interrupting."

"Riordan is a very old friend," Duncan explained, and she frowned, then cast a quick healing spell. He coughed, leaning forward slightly, then lay back again. "Thank you." He sounded better, and she inclined her head.

"Duncan and I took our Joinings together," Riordan continued, "I have been— keeping him informed of the latest developments." Lorelei stiffened, and she knew immediately that Riordan had noticed; he became suddenly more attentive. "Is there something wrong?"

"I— no," she glanced over at Duncan, who nodded.

"Lorelei has also been visiting me with updates, as has Alistair." Riordan's eyes widened by the tiniest fraction, though there were no other signs of alarm.

"In order for this to be true, you would have to be rather proficient in Orlesian," his accent blurred the words in a rather pleasant way.

"I am." She looked away from the two men who were watching her with a sudden intensity that made her somewhat uncomfortable. "I— it's actually my first language. I lived in Jader until I was taken to the Circle of Magi in Ferelden."

"Jader? Truly?" She nodded, and Riordan and Duncan shared a look before bursting into laughter. They laughed until the Warden-Commander could laugh no more, arms folded over his belly as he tried to catch his breath.

Lorelei was having some trouble understanding the reaction.


	11. Innocence

"These Orlesians will run this war into the ground! Cailan, you must—" Lorelei stopped in her tracks and turned slowly, noting the stern gaze of the guards outside of the tent from which the argument originated.

"I _must_ do nothing, Loghain," she winced, "You seem to make a habit of forgetting who is King. _I_ decide the course of this war, not you." Lorelei shot a sharp look at the guard, who smirked at her, clearly not intimidated.

"I understood that during a Blight, it is the Grey Wardens who have the final say." Lorelei blinked at the change in the Teyrn's voice— suddenly calm, and perhaps with a trace of humour. It set her teeth on edge.

"The Grey Wardens agree with me, Loghain," King Cailan said confidently, and this, somehow, worried her more than the changeable moods of the Hero of River Dane.

"The _Orlesians_ — including the Grey Wardens among them— are pursuing more than the end of the Blight, Cailan." She blinked, recognising the wording and wondering at its significance.

"Nonsense— we simply have to wait for the Archdemon to reveal itself, like the Grey Wardens advised. They have more experience with these things than either of us, Loghain. We must trust their judgement; they will lead us to a glorious victory." Loghain snorted, and Lorelei was reminded of what she'd heard before— a similar shouting match, and then hints that the King was one whose judgement was in serious question. He did not seem to have completely learned his lesson. Neither, of course, had Lorelei, who was here once again, outside the King's tent, eavesdropping on an argument that she had no business hearing.

"And what of the Queen?"

"What _of_ Anora, Loghain? If her claim is true, it will still be true when the Archdemon is dead and we march to Denerim in victory."

"If—" There was rage in the Teyrn's voice, then, the sort that prefaced murder, and Lorelei knew that it was beyond time to make a retreat.

She raised a finger to her mouth; the guard's eyes narrowed in his helmet, but he nodded, however reluctantly, and she moved away from the tent quietly. When she was far enough away, she broke into a run, aiming herself at the tent where Duncan was still recovering.

She remembered— too late— that a direct path meant crossing through where the Chevaliers had camped. She had a brief feeling of— alarm— and ignored it.

And then she slammed, hard, against a metal-clad chest.

* * *

"We meet again, _little girl_ ," Lorelei pulled back immediately, and meaty hands closed around her shoulders with a grip that hurt enough that she nearly bit right through her lip to keep herself from crying out. "You embarrassed me, before." He shook her, and her neck made a cracking noise as her head flopped back and forth. "You owe me for that. I think it's a good time for me to _collect_."

It was hard to concentrate over the ringing in her ears, and the sensation of blood rushing in her temples— and the ever present humming of the Taint coursing through her. There was something about it that troubled her, but she wasn't given a chance to think about it.

"Such a tiny little thing," the man mused, "You don't even weigh half of nothing. I could snap you in— _aack_!" Lorelei fell to the ground in a heap, barely registering the guggling sound that he was making, or the sharp sting to her knee as it collided with a rock. She tasted blood in her mouth.

A shadow fell over her, and she tried to look up, but moving her head caused so much pain in her neck that she gave up, rolling her eyes to the side and back, as far as she could. She was able to make out a knee, then a leg, and then finally, as the man to whom the shadow belonged knelt beside her, a face— and a pair of very bright, very angry blue eyes. The eyes were as familiar to her as the voice, and she bounced between relief and fear.

"Can you move, Warden?" She blinked, then tried. Her legs and arms seemed perfectly willing to respond, but as soon as she tried to move her neck, pain exploded at the base of her skull. She went limp, letting out her breath and blowing up a trail of dirt in front of her face.

"Anders," she said finally, closing her eyes and using a healer's sense to confirm that there was some injury to her neck that needed immediate treatment. "I need Anders."

"You heard the Warden," he said sharply to someone on her other side— probably not one of the Orlesians, most likely one of his own soldiers. "Get the healer— and the rest of you— get this— trash— out of my sight." She heard his armour shift as he gestured, presumably to the man who had attacked her. She wondered if the man was unconscious, dead, or mangled beyond recognition. There seemed to be an odd pause, and then she felt pressure— on her shoulders, the back of her head, and then on her back, then her legs.

"What—"

"You need not fear lecherous intent from me, Warden: I am merely assessing your condition," came the reply, harsh but not, she realised, entirely unkind. "I have enough experience with such injuries to show some caution before moving you." She blinked rapidly to clear tears— and the dirt that caused them— from her eyes. He sighed, and she focussed her gaze on his feet, figuring from their position that he was squatting beside her. "I am— surprised," and now there was a dry humour in his tone, "That after surviving the battles that you have— fighting darkspawn and demons, no less— you would be so grievously injured because you were dropped by one fat Chevalier."

"Mages— are— notoriously delicate," she forced the words out, and was treated to a dry chuckle.

"So it seems. Ah, healer," she tried to look up to greet Anders, and winced at the stabbing pain it caused in her neck.

"Andraste's soft and shapely ass," Anders hissed, and she had to smile, just a little, as she felt him lean over her, pressing fingers here and there against her spine. "How did you manage this— and why did you cut through the Chevaliers' camp?" She closed her eyes as the magic washed over her and the pain retreated, feeling her muscles relax.

Then she was being rolled over and moved into a seated position, and Anders was asking questions. She shook her head, still somewhat rattled but knowing that explaining that she was in the rush to report on a conversation that she had no business overhearing while _in the presence of one of the participants_ was about as far from a good idea as she could get.

"I overestimated the ability of the Captain to control his men," she said finally, and Loghain snorted.

"Willingness, more like," he snapped, and Lorelei silenced Anders with a sharp look and the smallest shake of her head. She didn't particularly want to incite a rant about the character of Orlesians under normal circumstances— never mind while it still felt like the ground was heaving beneath her feet and her blood felt like it was too hot for her veins.

Wait.

"Darkspawn," she felt Anders stiffen at her side, and Loghain stared at her for several moments before yanking her to her feet without ceremony. "They're—" she made a face, "This is odd. It isn't an attack— I have to speak with Duncan." Both men voiced protests— Anders because of her recent injury and Loghain demanding more information. "I am sorry, your grace, but I don't know enough to even make an attempt at an explanation." He was giving her _that_ look, again, like staring hard enough into her eyes would grant him access to her inner-most thoughts. She was glad that there was no truth in that particular myth, though Flemeth had shaken her disbelief easily enough. "Teyrn Loghain, when I know more, I will tell you." She waited until his eyes narrowed slightly before she tore her eyes away, stumbling into Anders and feeling like she'd made some kind of binding oath.

When Anders had delivered her to Duncan's tent, she had him fetch Warren, Alistair, Carver, Theron, and— with some hesitation but to her Warden—Commander's obvious approval— Riordan.

* * *

He threw up his hands with such violence that Lorelei found herself thinking that he must take special care to fasten his gauntlets in place, or they would have quickly become large, misshapen projectiles. Lorelei shifted in place, trying to allow the large man to have his rant, but the longer it went on, the more uncomfortable she became.

"Perhaps I should come back later," she said, once she could bear no more, "Or you could speak with Duncan..."

"I would rather speak with a Fereldan that some..."

"Then I should definitely leave," she mused, and he stopped again to give her that look once again— that look of appraisal that was unnerving on anyone else, but was downright frightening on the face of the Teyrn of Gwaren. Without thinking, she moved towards the tent's exit, then stopped when he stepped towards her.

"And why is that?"

"It doesn't matter." His expression darkened, and she took an involuntary step back. When he made no more movement in her direction, she sighed. "I'm not Ferelden-born, your grace."

"But—"

"My father was a mage at the Orlesian Circle of Magi," she wondered how many times she'd have to explain her origins— perhaps this would be the last time. Perhaps the Hero of River Dane would strike her down in a rage, and she would never need to explain anything else, ever again. The thought was, unsurprisingly, rather unsatisfying. "The Chantry discourages mages from having children, but it happens— and when it does, the child is taken by the Chantry." Loghain was still watching her, and she could not even imagine his thoughts as she spoke. "If I hadn't manifested magic, I would have likely become a sister. I was sent to Ferelden very young, but I am— and was— Orlesian by birth." He said nothing for what felt like forever, and she found herself calculating her chance of escape. She would probably have to use magic, and hope that he wasn't expecting it. She was halfway through a plan when he moved, and she jumped. He was indicating a chair.

"Sit." She walked slowly to the chair and sat, unable to look away from him, except for a brief moment where she made sure that the chair was under her before she sat down. Loghain sighed heavily. "I am not going to eat you, Warden."

"I would be a little less nervous if you sat as well, your grace," she said slowly, and he gave her that considering look before he claimed a chair and sat down. "I should not have said anything— I just—"

"My opinion of Orlesians is well-known," he drawled, "Will you presume to tell me that it is incorrect, as others have done?" There was danger in his voice, in his very presence— but there was also something else. It was if he was offering her an escape with the question. She paused, immediately knowing the right thing to say but wanting to make sure that she meant it before she committed to the words. She was— just a little— surprised to find that she did.

"No, your grace." His eyebrows— both of them, she noticed with a bit of petty gratitude— shot up at that. "Your experiences are as valid as anyone else's, and... I imagine that they are not easily put aside." He blinked, but she was not foolish enough to think that she had gained a full reprieve. What she had gained was time.

"You are— not what I expected." She flinched, and he frowned.

"I am not accustomed to being noticed, your grace," she said, somewhat impressed with herself for keeping her voice steady and even. "So I have heard that comment often lately— and frankly—" she faltered, noticed the the slightest movement in his eyebrow, and continued, "Once I get over how unsettling it is to be noticed, it is rather insulting that people are so surprised that I am half-way competent, or intelligent, or decent."

"Indeed."

"If there is nothing else, I really should be getting back to Duncan," she rose to her feet, and found herself barely above eye-level with the very tall Teyrn, as he had remained seated. Lorelei wondered if the trace of amusement at the corners of his eyes was because he noticed this or because of something else. "I am sorry, your grace."

"You are sorry?" His brows knit together as he looked up at her. "What for, I wonder? Do you seek to apologise for the atrocities committed by your countrymen— one of whom has now attacked you twice?" If she hadn't know better, she would have sworn that he was about to laugh at her. "I am an old, hateful man, Warden, and even I can see that that would be sheer idiocy." Then he did laugh, and though it was bitter, it was still surprising to hear.

Reluctantly, she reached out to him, drawing back at the last moment. The Teyrn was leaning forward, rubbing his temples, and seemed at once vulnerable and dangerous, like a wounded animal.

"I— will go," she said, hesitating briefly before continuing, "If we learn more, I will send Warren to keep you informed." He looked up, then, and the raw emotions on his face nearly caused her to trip on her way out, as she found herself unwilling to turn her back to him.

"That is probably for the best," he said, and there was something about the catch in his voice that spoke of a terrible pain— and an anger that, for some reason, the big man was refusing to turn against her. "Maker keep you, Warden."

When she stumbled back to her tent, she could not bring herself to speak about the exchange with her comrades— it felt like some sort of violation that she had even been there to witness it, like she'd done something worse than disturb the Teyrn in his nightclothes.

* * *

Lorelei looked up at the sharp cry of the crow, staring down at her with yellow eyes from a branch above her head.

"Hello, Morrigan," she said softly, and the crow cried out again before launching itself out of the tree, flew over her head, and settled beside her, again wearing the form of a woman. She frowned at the scowl the witch was wearing. "What is it?"

"Those fools who consider themselves your superiors," Morrigan's voice was a low, angry hiss as they walked the edge of the Dalish camp— now the furthest from the Chantry's camp as well as that of the King and Teyrn Loghain. "Had the gall— they attempted to conscript me." Lorelei stopped walking abruptly, and turned to face the daughter of Flemeth. Morrigan was wearing an angry snarl.

"Morrigan, I—" Lorelei paused, then sighed. "I did not recommend that action. I am sorry."

"They said that they would force me— kill me, if I resist," the she said coolly, crossing her arms over her chest, "It would be most interesting to see those fools try such a thing."

"I will speak to Duncan."

"Does even he have the power to stop this madness? It is not only me that they have threatened, after all." Lorelei glanced into the Dalish camp, and spotted a familiar white-haired figure at the Keeper's aravel. She started walking again, and Morrigan kept pace with her easily. "I imagine that they have spoken to your little Elven friends as well. I know that they have approached the bard and the giant."

"Duncan is the Commander of the Grey in Ferelden," Lorelei said carefully, "I would think that his word would be the last."

"Indeed? That is not the impression that they gave me."

"What do you know, Morrigan?" Morrigan smiled, a wide, dangerous sort of smile, and Lorelei braced herself.

"They have already decided on your Commander's replacement," she said, "A particularly intriguing specimen— if he were not so arrogant, that is. Caron, I think they called him." That stopped her in her tracks, and she turned slowly to face the Witch of the Wilds.

"Gerod Caron?"

"Yes, that was it." Lorelei closed her eyes and took a deep, slow breath. The man that Morrigan spoke of was handsome, charismatic— and absolutely devoted both to the Orlesian Empire and to the Chantry. He was probably among the most politically explosive appointees that her superiors within the Wardens could have chosen for the post, and it made their intentions quite clear. "You do not like this man?" Morrigan seemed amused.

"I don't know him," Morrigan laughed, seeing right through her attempt at a diplomatic answer. She had used it before, after all. "Can you keep me informed of what you hear, Morrigan?"

"You will not attempt to conscript me, as they have done?" Lorelei shook her head. "My mother was right about you— you are not like these others."

"What do you mean?" Morrigan smiled, then, and Lorelei knew immediately that she wasn't going to get an answer. The woman seemed happiest when she was holding something back; her mother had given Lorelei much the same sort of impression.

"I will keep you informed, Grey Warden." There was as much lie in the declaration as truth, but Lorelei was not interested in challenging the daughter of the Witch of the Wilds.

"Thank you, Morrigan." The wild beauty inclined her head, a Queen to a loyal subject, and stepped back, disappearing into the woods.

* * *

"I know that look," Warren said, and Lorelei hesitated, not sure how best to continue.

"The Orlesians are becoming a problem— well, more of a problem," she said finally, letting out a defeated breath. She had, despite everything, maintained a tiny spark of hope that eventually the Orlesians and Fereldans would form an actual alliance to defeat the Blight. "They're attempting to conscript every one of our companions— willing or not."

"Even Morrigan?" Lorelei nodded, and Warren's eyebrows lifted. "And Sten? I wish I could have overheard that."

"They've also chosen Duncan's successor: Gerod Caron." Warren whistled, and Lorelei found herself scowling suddenly. Whistling, along with arching a single eyebrow, was one of the skills she envied. It was not fair that Warren possessed _both_. "And I'm sure that you can see why I find that particularly troubling, especially given the fact that Duncan is— well, most decidedly _not dead_." Warren nodded, and they both stared into the trees for a few moments. "I didn't want to believe it, but— they're really doing it. They're actually willing to sabotage us to the point of letting the Blight overwhelm Ferelden."

"Not quite," he said, amusement colouring his tone slightly, "I think they just don't want _Fereldans_ to get the credit, even if it means letting the Blight progress a little further." She blanched.

"Warren— are you seriously suggesting that the Orlesian _Grey Wardens_ are willing to— in effect, even if it's temporary— side with the Darkspawn?" Warren's face was grim.

"I'm not suggesting it." He took her arm, and expecting a tight grip, she winced— but he was gentle as he pulled her towards him and began to steer them both towards the tent that had become Duncan's. "The time for suggesting is done; this is as close to a confirmation as I'm willing to allow."

"What are we going to do?" Warren's face softened slightly as he looked down at her.

"We continue to plan— and hope that your spectacular luck holds out as long as it needs to."

* * *

Duncan leaned forward only slightly. If not for the tightness around the eyes, Lorelei would have been fooled by his calm, stoic expression, and thought him unaffected by what he was hearing.

"You believe that our Orlesian brothers and sisters are trying to sabotage our efforts here," Duncan spoke slowly; Lorelei only saw the flash of amusement as he said _Orlesian_ because she was looking for it. She sat closest to Duncan— to her either side sat Riordan and Warren. Riordan's amusement was as tangible in the air as Warren's silent support.

"I believe that we cannot afford to risk the delicate alliances that we have built." Lorelei was as careful with her words as Duncan, and she kept her gaze firmly locked on to his. "And we cannot— we cannot risk any advantage that we have over the Blight."

"Our numbers in Ferelden are very low," Riordan supplied.

"We cannot afford to alienate those who would help us with blanket recruitment, either," Warren countered, "Morrigan, for one, will disappear rather than be forced into the Order. I would rather have an ally in battle who is not a Warden than one who died in the Joining— or who quit the field because he or she was forced to choose between conscription or desertion." Lorelei was nodding, and Duncan's face was calculating and grave.

"I do not believe that the King will revoke the Right of Conscription." Lorelei blinked at Duncan's pronouncement, and Warren stiffened.

"He would not believe that there is anyone who would refuse to join the Order," the former Captain said, and his tone was soft, resigned.

"Then we will have to remind our Orlesian _brothers_ and _sisters_ ," Lorelei said suddenly, noting Duncan's raised eyebrows— perhaps because there were, in fact, no female members among the visiting Grey Wardens, "That recruitment into the _Fereldan_ ranks is at the discretion of the Warden-Commander of _Ferelden_." She gave in to temptation and glanced to the side, first at Riordan, who wore an expression that looked suspiciously like glee, and then at Warren, whose mouth was tilted upward at the edges.

"I suppose," Duncan's voice was low, and Lorelei inclined her head forward slightly at the hint of humour in his voice, "That you have suggestions regarding potential recruits?"

"Yes," Lorelei leaned forward, folding her hands in front of her as she did so, "I cannot argue against Jowan or Anders— though I imagine they would join if simply asked— or Sten."

"Teyrn Loghain will insist that he be executed otherwise," Warren explained, "He is a soldier in a foreign army— and the Qunari will no doubt use any information that he has obtained for an eventual invasion." Lorelei winced; she should have realised this before, but she hadn't even considered this angle until Warren had told her about it.

"So— out of a dozen recruits, you would have us take only three?"

"Faren Brosca is willing enough, as most of the Dwarves are likely to be," Warren continued in the rough voice of a very practical soldier. "But most of the others— Morrigan, Neria, the Dalish Hunters— they are all either unwilling or unsuitable or both."

"You have thought this through," Riordan mused, and was unfazed by Warren's sharp look, responding with a cheeky grin, "What about the bard? Leliana?" Lorelei shook her head.

"Impractical and impolitic," she said, and her nerves sang as the three men returned the full force of their attention back to her. "Even if I thought that she would be survive the Joining— and I don't— she's not suited, and even if that weren't the case— she's an Orlesian bard. The last thing we need is for Teyrn Loghain to see us filling up the Fereldan Grey Wardens with Orlesians."

"That is a concern," Duncan said smoothly, "You really believe her unsuited?"

"She is devoted to the Maker— even more so than Alistair. The Chantry always needs to come second to the Grey Wardens' quest— am I incorrect?"

"You are correct." Duncan shifted, then fixed her with his eerie stare. "You _have_ thought this through."

"We have." His mouth twitched, and his hand floated up, fingers stroking his beard thoughtfully.

"Have you considered the possibility that the Orlesians will react by recruiting them into their own ranks, should we refuse to recruit them into ours?" Lorelei was almost frightened, for a moment— and then he smiled reassuringly, leaned forward, and began to describe what they were to do next.

Warren, across from her but unseen by Duncan and Riordan, offered her a grim nod. Lorelei wondered how many times she would have to consider the possible necessity of having someone killed. She shuddered.

She had changed so much over the past several weeks that sometimes she wondered if she could even consider herself still human.

* * *

Lorelei glanced over at Warren, who stood by the entrance with his arms crossed over his chest, as stoic as ever, and as solid and unmoving as Shale. The thought of Shale made her smile, and she was grateful for the fact that _she_ was not expected to be even a little bit intimidating. The golem had declared her loyalty— such as it was, of course— to Lorelei and the few Fereldan Wardens, stating that she was less driven to 'squish their puny heads' than she was with the Orlesians.

It was a boost to their morale, if nothing else, as the small group of Wardens banded together against those who were strangely eager to take command— and run each alliance that didn't benefit Orlais into the ground. It made a horrible kind of sense to Lorelei. The Chevaliers and Orlesian Wardens were courting the King, and driving a wedge further into his relationship with his general, the Teyrn. If the forces from Orlais were to save the day, Ferelden's King (and perhaps, though to a lesser extent, her people) would be most grateful. She did not think that Cailan was quite as ignorant of all of it as he acted, but he was rather attached to the grand gesture, and to the idea of doing something _glorious_ and thus living up to his father's legacy.

"The chain of command must be respected," Gerod Caron was charismatic, Lorelei would grant him that, but he was barely older than Lorelei, and seemed a bit taken aback by the more junior Wardens' insubordination. They had gathered in the Grey Wardens' camp— this was at Duncan's insistance, as it kept the King and the Teyrn and the other allies out of the mess and had the best chance of preserving something of the Order's reputation.

"And which chain of command is that?" Warren stepped forward in several smooth movements, making no effort to hide his displeasure. "I have seen no evidence of any formal command structure in the Wardens. There is a First Warden in Weisshaupt— and then a Warden-Commander for each country, but beyond that, all Wardens are basically the same rank. From what I have been told, the branches of the Order for each country are allowed a great deal of autonomy." Caron stiffened, and Lorelei knew that he saw the direction that Warren was headed. "The Warden-Commander of Orlais has no direct control over the Fereldan Order— nor does her Imperial Highness."

"I have been appointed—"

"That's another thing," Warren continued as if Caron hadn't spoken at all, "You were chosen by the Warden-Commander of Orlais, and presumably the Empress to replace Duncan as the Warden-Commander of Ferelden. But neither he nor the Empress have any such authority— and Warden—Commander Duncan is a little bit too— shy of dead— to retire just yet."

At that, Duncan entered the tent, scrubbed, armed and armoured, with Alistair by his side, dark eyes sweeping over each person in the tent with his standard stoic stare— and then he treated them all with a slow smile. Gerod Caron looked like he tasted something particularly sour, and Lorelei fought the urge to laugh. Duncan was still struggling with several of his injuries, but the Orlesian ranks boasted no mages among them, and to all appearances, he was ready to best any one of them in a duel, should it prove necessary.

"Good evening, brothers and sisters," he said smoothly, "I understand that there is much to discuss— but first, I must thank you with all my being for lending us your support in the coming battle against the darkspawn. Your aid is greatly appreciated."

Then Lorelei noticed a shadow behind Duncan, one that stepped into the light as if in response to her scrutiny. She recognised him immediately, first by his blue, blue eyes, and then by the scars that twisted his face into something almost monstrous— scars that prompted him to cover his face with a heavy helmet almost as often as his painfully beautiful eyes did.

Chion had survived the massacre of Ostagar. She did not know why he hadn't shown himself until now, but she imagined that it had quite a lot to do with manoeuvring of which she realised Duncan had only pretended to be unaware.

Lorelei had a sharp, sad sort of feeling in her gut as she studied her brother and hoped that he would prove to be an ally.

* * *

"...And know that one day, we shall join you." Duncan nodded to her, and she smiled weakly, knowing why she'd been chosen to recite those words at this particular joining but wishing, at the same time, that she hadn't.

"Step forward, Sten," Duncan said, and the Qunari stepped forward, glaring first at Lorelei, and then down at the man holding the cup of poison. For one horrible moment, she was sure that he'd strike Duncan down, and that she and the others— Carver, Warren and Alistair— would have to step in and end the large man's life, all for wanting to keep the chance of returning to his people once the Blight had ended. But the moment passed, and Sten took the cup, drank, and collapsed, nearly crushing Carver and Warren as they caught him and lowered him to the ground.

"He's alive," Carver said, glancing toward Lorelei, who found herself nodding. She'd known— she'd peeked into the Fade just after Sten had taken his sip, and had seen the Taint spreading slowly— too slowly to mean an imminent death.

"Step forward, Jowan." The jittery blood mage couldn't seem to keep his eyes settled anywhere, glancing from the cup, to Duncan, to his feet and then everywhere before settling on Lorelei's. They were wide with terror. Lorelei forced her lips into a thin line, and flicked her fingers toward Duncan, who stood waiting patiently with the silver chalice. Swallowing audibly, Jowan shuffled forward, and eventually drank, and collapsed.

"He lives," Lorelei spoke without thinking, and took a half-step backward at the bemused glances thrown in her direction. She flinched, but said nothing.

"Anders, step forward." Anders shrugged and stepped forward, nearly dragging a giggle out of Lorelei— he looked as if he might break into dance. It almost ruined the solemn mood of the gathering, but Lorelei held it together by keeping her eyes focussed anywhere but on Alistair.

Anders drank, and lived, as did the Dwarves, Faren and Oghren— Maker help them all, but the last candidates, an Orlesian Chevalier and a very earnest knight named Mhairi, died gasping. Lorelei didn't really mourn the Chevalier overmuch, since he was among those Chevaliers who had targeted the Elves in the camp for— fun. Lorelei had loudly protested his recruitment, but Duncan had accepted in an attempt to partially soothe ruffled feathers. The woman, she felt badly for. She'd been polite enough, even if she had been a little— eager, almost to the point of irreverence.

She had promised only that she would be silent on the matter, the Joining had proceeded without delay, and the candidates that she'd argued unsuitable were allowed to remain un-conscripted.

* * *

"I noticed that you argued against recruiting any women," Warren said, in that blank tone of voice that he usually reserved for particularly agitated— or stupid— people.

"You're not the only one who noticed," she tried to emulate him and keep her emotions out of her voice, and failed. She glanced over at him just in time to catch the brief flicker of a smile across his lips before it disappeared. It had been Carver, in a brief aside before the Joining, that had been the first to remark that among the candidates that she approved of, there had been no women. They'd shared a brief moment of understanding as they both recalled Lorelei's concern about female Grey Wardens and broodmothers.

"No, I'm not." He reached out and pushed her shoulder with his hand, causing her to sway away from him in her seat before she straightened. "You should be more careful."

"I know," and she did. She'd seen the looks shot her way by Duncan and the other Wardens when she'd protested— more loudly for the women. "I just..." she sighed, and shifted so that she faced Warren directly. "This bit about the Grey Wardens succumbing to the Taint, and ending their lives in the Deep Roads..."

"It bothers you, because of what Carver told us— about the broodmother."

"And because none of the senior Wardens could say, with any certainty, that female Wardens don't— I don't like it. What if Grey Wardens go to their Calling and don't die? Even if they don't become broodmothers, it can't be good, having our brothers and sisters serving the darkspawn as ghouls."

"You're right," Warren raised an eyebrow when Lorelei flinched at the statement, and she wondered, in the back of her mind, if _everyone_ could arch a single eyebrow except her. "It is a foolish thing. It would be better to end years of service with an honourable death and funeral rather than to lose oneself and still—" He shuddered. It was the first sign of real discomfort that she'd seen Warren display; he was normally possessed of an eerie calm that he'd once told her was drilled into every officer that ever served in Gwaren's army. "You're not the only one troubled by this." He shifted again, armour creaking from the movement, "But you still need to be careful. You aren't in a position to change anything and being too obvious will get you reassigned— and you'll still walk the Deep Roads in roughly thirty years time."

"No," she was shaking her head with a violence that surprised even her, "When my time comes— provided I haven't died in battle by then, which is more likely— I am going to— I don't know." She threw her hands up. "Poison, if I must— I won't be too proud to ask for help from an apothecary. Or an assassin." She shuddered, then, and he covered her hand with his.

"It's best not to think of it for now— you have almost thirty years," he said, his rough voice softened into more comforting tones. She jerked away from him before she could stop herself. She jumped up and began to pace, freezing briefly when she dared to glance in his direction. "What is it?" There was no putting off the question, not if his expression was any indication.

"I don't have anywhere near thirty years." He stared at her, dark eyes asking more questions than she could answer if she had a lifetime, which— of course— she didn't. She sighed, and opened her robe at the shoulder. He looked away as if by instinct— ever the gentleman. When he forced his eyes back to her, he looked like it was one of the most difficult things he had ever done— and when his eyes locked on to her shoulder and breast— milky white, save for several patches of dark veins blighting her skin. He seemed to hover, briefly, as he leapt to his feet, capturing her arms in a rough grip that she knew would leave angry dark marks in the shape of his fingers.

"What is this?" She winced— she'd tried for a smile, but failed. He released her, and she closed her robe with shaking hands while he continued to stare at her without blinking. "Lorelei." She took a deep breath that rattled in her chest.

"This is— the cost of tapping into the power of the Taint— my 'devastating magic', as Neria called it. She was more right than any of us realised." He didn't smile at her attempt to copy Neria's upbeat, cheerful tone as she quoted her friend's description of her ability to tap into the power in the blood of darkspawn and Grey Warden— in the very corruption that threatened the land as surely as its carriers. "I've been told that it is one of the signs that a Grey Warden is due for their Calling, along with increased instances of nightmares— which I have had more difficulty blocking, as of late."

"You must never use this magic again." She stiffened at the order, frowning at Warren and wondering why he suddenly reminded her of Alistair. "Lorelei— promise me."

"I can't promise that, Warren. You know that. If it becomes necessary—"

"You'll do what you must." She blinked. She didn't think she'd ever seen him so angry. "Just do everything else first." He ran his hand through his hair, pale fingers parting a black sea of shiny strands, flashing red in the firelight.

"I'm hardly important enough to—" When he turned to her, she was sure that he was going to hit her, he looked so fierce. She took an involuntary step back.

"You are _important_ ," he said, and the words whistled briefly at the end as if each one threatened to become a roar if he didn't clamp down on them. "Despite your insane insistance in believing otherwise. Promise me that you will try everything else first."

"I— I promise that I will only tap into that power if it is absolutely necessary. If using it is worth the cost." He was staring at her again, and his face was filled with a desperate emotion that stole her breath. It was shocking— more in line with Alistair, not the stoic, ever-practical former Captain from Gwaren's army.

"I suppose that will have to be good enough." When his face settled into its more customary expression of unreadable attention, she found it much easier to breathe. "There's something else— what is it?"

"I was just wondering if we made the right decision." He frowned.

"What do you mean?"

"In reaffirming Duncan's rank."

"As opposed to?" She shrugged at him, feeling self-conscious under his careful study of her face.

"I'm just— did we really disrupt the Orlesian agenda?" He raised an eyebrow, and she rolled her eyes, "So to speak, of course."

"What is it that you're suggesting?"

"That we changed little, in the end— Duncan or Riordan or Gerod Caron. Maybe they've all got the same goal." Warren frowned. "I mean—" She threw up her hands. "I don't know what I mean. Duncan seems determined to end the Blight, much more so than our Orlesian brothers and sisters. There's just— maybe what the Order needs is a completely new leader— one whose loyalty to Ferelden is unassailable."

"What you're suggesting— that's mutiny." Warren looked at her out of the side of his eyes, and though his tone was serious, there were lines of humour etched in the corners of his eyes.

"It's just— hard to believe that after twenty years the Grey Wardens were still so few and still mostly populated by Orlesians." She shook her head, "Even if Duncan was insanely conservative with the Right of Conscription... it doesn't make sense. And once the Blight started—" she threw up her hands. "It seems insufficient, at best. At worst—"

"Negligent." She couldn't help but glance around looking for Alistair, and she winced at his likely reaction to a slur against his hero and surrogate father— and then she had a horrible thought. "Or—"

"Or?"

"Or— Maker, I can't believe that I'm saying this."

"Saying what?"

"Perhaps there is some substance to the Teyrn's paranoia about Orlesians." She could feel Warren stiffening beside her, and then— it was like his sharp inhalation sucked away all the air from around them.

"You're suggesting—"

"The King plans to form a formal alliance with Orlais— by way of a marriage between monarchs." She chewed her lip as Warren absorbed the information— information that she'd kept carefully hidden from him.

"How do you know this?"

"Eamon." His eyes widened slightly before his face went carefully blank.

"When you saw him in the Fade." His voice was flat, and Lorelei knew that this was intentional— before he'd become a Grey Warden, Warren had been a Captain for the Teyrn, and he had been fiercely loyal. "You didn't tell me before."

"Surely you understand."

"Yes, but it doesn't mean that I like it," he smiled then— it wasn't a smile of humour, but of acknowledgement. "What you're suggesting—"

"I'm suggesting that a weak Order in Ferelden during a Blight... would be a plausible reason to send Orlesian forces across the border, accomanied by several legions of chevaliers— also worthy of note is the fact that Duncan could have sent for reinforcements from Nevarra, the Free Marches, Antiva, Rivain—"

"And yet he only mentioned sending a call to Orlais." He tilted his head at a strange angle, like he was trying to see what she looked like rotated sharply to the side. She blinked, and Warren smiled. "I was just wondering how much time you've been spending with the good Teyrn." She flinched.

"I haven't run into him much since I told him that I was born in Orlais."

"Some would be surprised that you yet live." There was a joke there, and she made a face at him. It was too close to the mark to be funny.

"Thanks, _Alistair_ ," she drawled the name, letting her native accent have a rare visit. Warren shrugged.

"It seems to cheer you up when he does it."

"It doesn't work for you," his lips twitched at that, and then he leaned forward again. "This— what can we do, Warren?"

"Nothing." She started.

"Really? But—"

"We can do _nothing_ ," he intoned, in the very same tone of voice that he'd used to warn her about talking politics, her first night as a Grey Warden. "You aren't the Warden-Commander. You can't afford to be insubordinate— more than we all have been, at least."

"So there's nothing?"

"Well..." he looked away from her, then.

"What is it?"

"It would require subtlety, which— until now, I didn't think you had enough of— but it's possible."

"What _is_ it, Warren?"

"If you're feeling particularly hostile towards the country of your birth..."

"Warren." His lips twitched again.

"You could form a more— intentional— alliance with Teyrn Loghain. Just you, and whichever Grey Wardens would follow your command. It wouldn't even change much— we've already been meddling quite a lot behind the scenes, you in particular." It was true. It was so true that she must have been intentionally oblivious to miss it.

If she'd been standing, then, she would have flopped into a seated position— on the ground, if nothing was there to catch her. If she'd been holding anything, she'd have dropped it. As it was, she merely dropped her jaw and stared at him dumbly for several moments until he began to look suspiciously like he was about to collapse into laughter.

"Brother Warren," she managed finally, "You have a very dangerous sense of humour."

"Who's joking?" There was still laughter around his eyes, but there was something else there, too. Something decidedly serious.

"I thought—"

"The only thing funny about any of this," he seemed to be speaking with special care, and Lorelei realised that she'd made it back into the 'complete idiot' category in Warren's mind. "Is your refusal to see just how much power you have." His hands closed very gently around her shoulders, and he pulled her forward and then pushed her back, too slowly to do more than make the barest suggestion of shaking her. "There's no more time for modesty, _Sister_ Lorelei. It's time to talk tactics."

* * *

"Your Majesty!" Leliana's breathless greeting was all the warning she was given, as the former bard leapt to her feet and welcomed the King of Ferelden to the fire, where Lorelei had just reached a pause in a conversation that could get both of them killed. She was barely on her feet when the familiar golden armour was suddenly before her, reflecting the firelight so brightly that he was like a beacon.

"If you will excuse us, dear lady," Cailan purred, and Lorelei tried very hard not to wince when he lifted Leliana's hand to his lips, and uttered a dismissal that seemed just a little too casual. Leliana inclined her head in Lorelei's direction— only slightly— before she left, disappearing like smoke in a brisk wind. "Greetings, Warden," his Majesty's attention was now fully focussed on Lorelei, and she felt a brief flash of regret that he wasn't still flirting with Leliana, "Might I have a word?" That flash of regret was quickly replaced with terror as she wondered if her conversation with Warren— or worse, with Leliana— had been overheard and reported. Grey Warden or not, she could still be executed for even the suggestion of high treason. There was precedent.

"I— of course, your Majesty," she spoke carefully, and gestured for the King to sit. He followed the gesture, then shook his head.

"Walk with me, please." She offered no protest, and followed him towards the edge of the small encampment claimed by the meager Ferelden Grey Wardens (plus Riordan, Duncan and Chion), then through the camp of the Grey Wardens of Orlais. The King was greeted often and with obvious affection, and he returned each greeting with an easy charm that would have reminded her more strongly of Alistair if his manners had more sincerity and less polish. King Cailan was smoother, shinier, and almost— completely without concern. She found that what had been merely unease when she'd first met the man had become outright dread, as if she were watching a lifeline fray and fail right before her eyes.

Just as suddenly as he'd sought her out, they were standing in front of the King's tent— a grand affair, sent with the Empress's blessing and presented to Cailan by the Captain of the Chevaliers when they arrived to bolster the King's forces. Lorelei wondered if her Imperial Highness had somehow predicted that Cailan's tent would be destroyed or left behind— and then she wondered if she'd been spending too much time with the Teyrn Mac Tir.

But there was no time for her to lose herself in thought again, for King Cailan's guard was holding the tent-flap open, and his Majesty was waiting inside with a smile that held the smallest touch of impatience. As she entered the tent, she couldn't help but glance around, wondering if she would find a sword, elevated and waiting to separate her head from her body. There was no such sword; Cailan sat on a chair that looked suspiciously like a throne and gestured her to a seat that resided across a vast expanse of table. It was far too— fancy— to be anchored, as it was, in the dirt floor provided by the Kocari Wilds. With growing unease, she sat, balancing her staff against an equally gaudy chair beside her. She'd been a bit surprised that Cailan had been unarmed, and even more surprised that she'd been allowed to bring her weapon into the King's Tent, though she supposed that her real weapon was not her staff, but the magic that she channelled through it.

"What can I do for you, your Majesty?"

"So formal," Cailan teased, and she noted that he was slouching, just a little, in his chair, "Please call me Cailan— at least when we are alone— and I shall call you— Lorelei, if I may." She folded her hands together in her lap, forcing still the fingers that had twitched despite her best effort to contain her reaction to the familiar address. It felt wrong, somehow, for the King to use her name, but she could hardly refuse him permission, even if he had asked after the fact, and only as a formality. The King was free to address her as he wished, so Lorelei concentrated on her breathing and hoped that he either hadn't noticed or was willing to ignore her discomfort.

"Was there something specific that you wished to speak of, y— Cailan?" He smiled widely when she corrected herself, and she was struck by his resemblance to Alistair— well, Alistair's resemblance to him, if she wanted to be correct about it. As soon as she'd processed the reminder, there was an odd twisting feeling in her gut, like it was an insult to think of Alistair when looking at the King— an insult to _Alistair_ , not Cailan, blasphemous as that thought was.

"Yes," he leaned forward eagerly, "I have heard the official reports, but I wanted to hear it directly from someone who was there."

"Hear what, your Ma— Cailan?" His eyes were nearly gleaming, and a detached part of her noted that the colour was a pale blue, shot through with silver— a placid lake to Loghain's cloudless sky.

"About Redcliffe, of course!" If the darkspawn had chosen precisely that moment to attack the King's camp, she would have been almost grateful. She did not know what her Orlesian superiors had told Cailan, but her report to them had been heavily sanitized of any dangerous details, and carefully rehearsed with Warren before she'd given it. "Was it really a demon? How glorious to face off directly with a being of pure evil and save the noble family Guerrin!" She winced. Glorious was hardly a word she'd ever use to describe the incidents at Redcliffe, beginning, middle or end, and she imagined that the Arl or Arlessa hardly thought of her as any kind of saviour.

"I am hardly a bard," she caught herself before she said 'your Majesty' and was forced to turn it into the King's name; it felt as wrong, if not more so, for her to be addressing him so casually as it felt to hear her name on his lips, in a voice far too— reverent— to be a King speaking of his subject and comrade-in-arms. There was something slimy about it, and the rumours she'd heard seemed to suddenly have more weight to them; she resisted the urge to shudder.

"But was it like the tales?" Lorelei flinched again, remembering the feeling of violation as the revenant had pulled her forward with its terrible power, and the spinning sensation as she'd unwittingly ventured into the Fade, pieces of dreams and memories that she had no right to witness paraded in front of her. "I heard that you were in the Fade— what is it like, the Fade? I heard that my father faced off a demon in the Fade once."

"I..." she frowned, trying to think of the best way to describe the Fade to someone who had never been there, and— if Maker had any mercy at all— would never find himself there. "The Fade is rumoured to be made up of bits and pieces of this world, details brought over by the minds of dreamers and maintained by the spirits that reside there. The Fade, as I experienced it in Redcliffe, looked like the castle, for the most part, but had the feeling of a mirror's reflection. It was markedly absent of something that would have made it real. If that was ignored, it was— believable enough, for the image was built from the memories of the Arl and his son, and presumably the Arlessa, when she dreamt." Cailan was nodding vigorously, and gesturing for her to continue. Without the words to do so, Lorelei spread her hands wide in a gesture of helplessness. "Did you have a specific question?"

"I just want to know what it was _like_ ," Cailan said, "To face off against a demon! Did you storm the gates?"

"We did not," she answered slowly, remembering how vigorously the Orlesian Wardens taking her report had questioned her about how, specifically, she'd entered the castle. She worried at her lip for a moment, then leaned forward. Cailan did the same, as if smelling a secret. "I kept it out of my report out of difference to the Guerrin family," she explained, "But there is a secret tunnel leading under the lake and into the dungeons of the castle. Bann Teagan told us of it and granted us access." She paused, "It did not seem wise to share this detail too openly." He nodded.

"We are at peace with Orlais, of course," he said, with that bright, shiny smile that reminded her painfully of Alistair— painfully, because while Alistair's smile was always genuine, the King's had something about it that suggested arrogance, and perhaps even a secret contempt— "But I appreciate your consideration, all the same. I heard that you personally escorted my cousin Connor to the Circle Tower."

"I— yes, your— Cailan." This was one of the subjects she knew needed careful attention; she had not made a friend of either the Arl or the Arlessa, though Bann Teagan had, for the most part, accepted the necessity. Lorelei had remembered thinking about how inappropriate it was for the Arl's brother— only a minor Bann— to show so much more concern for the people of Redcliffe than the man actually responsible for the Arling. "I thought it the safest course of action, especially since all the templars stationed at Redcliffe had perished." Along with most of the residents, all but one of the servants, most of the Arl's knights and every last Elf in residence— but Lorelei didn't think it terribly politic to turn this conversation into a rant against the King's own relatives.

"I would never have imagined that Connor would be a mage." Lorelei inclined her head.

"There is often no way to detect a mage until their ability manifests," she explained, and she caught herself smiling, just a little, at the memory of the earnest young noble. "He struck me as a particularly responsible young man. I imagine that he will do very well at the Circle."

"But surely he could have stayed with his mother until the Blight—"

"...Your Majesty," Lorelei didn't correct herself this time, so focussed on her next words was she, "Forgive me, but given the events at Redcliffe, I felt it far too dangerous to allow Connor's training to wait." She thought it a particularly diplomatic answer— not a single mention of Isolde or Eamon or how utterly stupid the whole idea was, or how things like that happened in Orlais— usually with disastrous consequences. Had she left Connor, still vulnerable from his ordeal, where he was— where the Veil was still weak from the demon's trespass and the death and destruction caused by it— she had been sure (and was still sure) that there might not have been a Redcliffe to rescue the next time she passed through.

She had learned enough diplomacy to realise that this was not something one said to a King, especially one who made a habit of refusing to believe that anything could go wrong.

"But will he be _happy_ — without his family?" Lorelei studied the King closely, noting the lines around his mouth and eyes. She felt herself soften, just a little, at what looked like genuine concern for Connor.

"He will be safest where he can learn to master his talent," she said gently, forcing herself to ignore the anger, lying in wait somewhere underneath her. When she was alone, and not so focussed on her manners, it would rise up and require dealing with. "The Circle will be a family, of a sort, if that is your concern."

"I— understand," he didn't sound like he understood at all, but Lorelei felt a profound relief as he offered an escape from the subject.

"Is there something else, your—" his eyebrows lifted, and she forced herself to correct herself, "—Cailan. Is there something else?"

"Yes," the King rose from his seat, and his hand went up as if to run his fingers through his hair— then stopped just short of the gesture that reminded her of his half-brother. "I understand that Duncan has recovered."

"Yes."

"And that he will be resuming command of the Grey Wardens for the next assault?" Lorelei confirmed this, too, wondering if the King was going to press for the Orlesians to be in charge, since they had the greater numbers. She hoped that he wouldn't.

"The Grey Wardens of Orlais are here to support the Fereldan forces," she spoke slowly, pausing until the King nodded. "Few as we are, the Grey Wardens of Ferelden will take point in the next battle and the ones following— hopefully there will be only a few more before the Archdemon shows itself."

"Loghain says that the plan is to head East, into the Southron Hills." Lorelei nodded.

"The Teyrn's plan is a sound one— the Hills will give us the higher ground, which we will need as the darkspawn push forward into Ferelden. It is not as good a location as Ostagar, but with the Horde so entrenched, re-taking it is not feasible." King Cailan sighed, as if disappointed.

"It would be grand, though, to re-take Ostagar," he breathed, and Lorelei stiffened at the note in his voice. "To force back the very tide of evil, and end the Blight where it began!" She looked down at her hands, and noticed that her fingernails had pierced the skin of her palms, and not for the first time during this conversation.

"Such a thing would be— too dangerous, your Majesty," she tried to calm her breathing and force the horrible images of another massacre out of her mind. "It is better to fall back, draw the darkspawn to Southron Hills. Dwarven engineers have been sent ahead to build ballistae, and fortify our next encampment in preparation for the battle."

"You sound like Loghain," Cailan said, and suddenly, Lorelei found herself pinned by the King's gaze— a gaze that forced her to conclude that arrogant and dreamy as he was, King Cailan Theirin was not, in fact, a complete idiot. "I hear that you were specifically invited to several strategy meetings."

"Yes. I imagine that now that Duncan is fully recovered, I will not be asked to attend any more." It was a dodge, rather than a lie— she hadn't, in fact, spoken to Teyrn Loghain since she'd revealed herself as an Orlesian by birth.

"If he doesn't invite you, I will," Cailan said with a wide smile, "I believe that we benefit greatly from your input." There was that— odd feeling again— like the King was thinking of her in far too admiring a light for a simple subject. Lorelei squashed down the urge to flee, steadied her breathing, and answered, hoping that the heat in her face was from the torch not far from her head.

"I am no great strategist, your Ma—" she winced at his sharp look, "—Cailan."

"If Loghain has asked for your opinion," Cailan corrected, "Then you are being modest." If her cheeks had been warm before, they were now aflame.

"Your— you flatter me."

"Oh no, I think you are quite incredible," he pushed, and she found herself on her feet and reaching for her staff.

"I— if there is nothing else, your Majesty, I really must retire to my camp." Cailan rose smoothly, unruffled by her nervousness.

"Of course. I will have a guard escort you— and no, you may not refuse. I heard about what happened before, and I will not allow it to happen again." She closed her lips on her half-spoken protest, then nodded.

"Thank you, your Majesty." Cailan was a perfect gentlemen as he lead her out of his tent and to the royal guard who escorted her back to her camp, where Alistair was waiting anxiously for her return, having been warned by Leliana.

As soon as her escort was dismissed, Lorelei sat down by the fire and Alistair settled beside her, wearing the armour of a soldier and the face of a King— without the crisp, hard edges of courtly manners, like a jagged stone worn smooth by the tide.

She looked up at him and smiled, wondering what he'd think of her if he could see into her mind and contemplate the consequences of the choices that she saw before her, many of which went against her Chantry-taught ethics.

"Alistair, could you get Leliana for me? There is something that I need to discuss with her." The almost-templar frowned, as if knowing instinctively that this was a conversation of the sort that would not include him, could not include him. He left without a word, and when the bright-eyed bard appeared at her side, he did not accompany her.

It was just as well, for after a few moments of teasing, they resumed their earlier conversation— one that would have probably horrified the bastard prince.


	12. Allegiance

"And I just wanted to tell you how I felt," Alistair spoke earnestly while Lorelei stared at him, unable to decide whether she was shocked or horrified. "That you're— well, special, and that in all this ugliness, you're one of the things that— people who— make the Blight a little brighter." He placed his hand flat across his face, then ran it through his hair. "Oh Maker, I sound ridiculous, don't I? This is embarrassing..."

"Alistair, I— don't know what to say." It was true— this revelation had caught her entirely by surprise and she was having trouble thinking of a response that was appropriate and that would not hurt Alistair's feelings. She wondered if such a response even existed.

"You don't have to say anything." He was wide-eyed and bright and eager and blinding in his devotion— to her, which seemed like a particularly bad joke.

"No, I do," she sighed, winding her braid around her wrist, then unwinding it and starting again, noticing that it flashed blue-black in the sunlight. "Alistair—" she turned to face him, and he looked crestfalllen. It was heartbreaking, and she faltered. It was a few moments before she was able to force herself to continue.

"Alistair, we are both Chantry-raised," she spoke slowly and in the lowest, calmest voice that she could bring to bear, "And we both know what it is like to be alone. I know that you— want to be loved, to be accepted, to have a family, and I have met no one more deserving."

"But you don't— feel that way— about me." His voice was flat.

"I don't— no, Alistair, that's not it at all!" He was backing away from her, and she found herself suddenly angry with him. She stepped forward, eventually managing to get close and stay close, taking a step toward him every time he stepped back, until he bumped into a tree. She laid a hand against his breastplate, over his heart. "You were raised to be a gentleman. You were raised to believe that love is a courtly affair, and that the pursuit of—" she coloured, swallowed, and continued, "— _that—_ is at its center. I am _not_ saying that I don't like you, Alistair. I'm not even saying that I won't come to love you— but I think that you attach too much of your self-worth on the opinions of others and you are worth _so much more_ than that. I think that because I am a woman, and you— prefer women—" Alistair flushed bright red, perhaps confirming that this was the right approach for her to take, "And I respect you, and like you— maybe you think that's more than it is, that it has to be, because why else would I have time for you?" She tilted her head, then stepped back, deciding that it was probably for the best that she didn't stare up his nose.

"I _am_ flattered that you think that I am pretty, even though that leaves me questioning your taste, quite frankly," she said, and was glad when he returned her smile, "I am glad that you trust me. I only hope that I prove worthy of that trust, though I highly doubt that I ever will. You— I consider you a valuable comrade and a dear— friend— and I have not had many friends, so please forgive me if I don't always know what to do, or what to say."

"You always seem to say the right thing," he said finally, and she laughed.

"I don't know how many romantic tales you have read, Alistair," she teased, noticing that his blush had faded from red to pink, with the darker shades only present on his cheeks and across his nose, "But I imagine that I have not, in this instance. The hero is supposed to get the girl, yes?" His lips twitched, and she took that to mean that he'd read— or heard— at least _one_ romantic tale, probably courtesy of Leliana. "I do care for you, Alistair, but—"

"But?"

"You have a bit of the puppy-dog about you," she mused, "I imagine that your upbringing had quite a lot to do with it, as did mine, if I'm honest— and I'm rubbish at lying, so I do try to be honest."

"You like _leaders_ , do you?" There was a bitterness there, and she frowned, shaking her head as they began walking back toward camp.

"If you truly don't want to lead," she said, "Then don't— but it should be by your choice, not because you think you aren't capable. I believe that you are, and that you are smart and strong and resourceful enough to achieve whatever end you wish— and I don't give half a copper coin who your parents were."

"Really?"

"Yes, really."

"So you don't fancy Warren? Or the King? Or Loghain?"

"—Wh _at_?" His tone was teasing, and she knew that the question was only half serious, but all the same, it was her turn to blush— she could feel her skin heating up and she wondered if she was radiating warmth in waves as she whirled to face Alistair. "I'm— _merciful Maker_ , Alistair!" He laughed, and after a few minutes of fish-mouthed staring, she joined him.

"I think he likes you, you know."

"Who?"

"Teyrn Loghain," Lorelei covered her eyes, and then tripped on an exposed root— Alistair caught her, then helped her find her footing again. "He stares at you. _All the time_." Lorelei rolled her eyes.

"I'm a Grey Warden," she said, with pain-staking care, "I'm a mage, and I'm _Orlesian_. He stares at you, just as often. He may simply be protective of Ferelden's independence, and of Cailan's place— his daughter's place— on the throne." Though if Arl Eamon had his way, Loghain's daughter would be put aside in favour of another alliance— one Loghain would most certainly not approve of. That line of thinking, of course, darkened her mood considerably, since Lorelei knew that the Chantry did not offer divorces, and the Empress would not enter into a marriage unless it had the full support of the Divine. There was something— maybe some _one_ — else moving behind the scenes; she didn't have the political savvy (or enough information) to wrap her mind around it completely, and yet it, a half-formed thought, would not quite leave her alone.

If Cailan sought to enter into a marriage alliance with Celene, he was most probably going to need to do so as a widower. Lorelei didn't know Anora, but the thought of a woman being murdered was an upsetting one, especially when her only crime was being a Queen without a child— and given the news from Denerim, perhaps not even that.

"Hey, are you alright?" Alistair's hand was on her shoulder, and he shook her, just gently. She smiled weakly up at him, then gestured to the camp.

"I'm just thinking about consequences," she said softly.

"Ah." They fell into a companionable silence, and she was glad, even as they parted ways to fulfill various duties in preparing the camp to move.

She realised, shortly after Alistair had gone one way and her another, that it was the first time that she had not reacted to an expression of any kind of admiration of her with a quick, clumsy escape.

* * *

Lorelei held up both hands, unable to take any more of this lecture about responsibility and diplomacy and what it meant to be a Grey Warden— as if the older mage was in any position at all to give such advice.

"Enough, please, Senior Enchanter," she said softly, holding on to what remained of the ragged vestiges of courtesy and respect for Wynne, granted by her age and rank within the Circle. "If you have a message, I'll convey it. If not, I really must go."

"The important message is for you, young lady—" The older woman had that pinched look, the one that looked like concern but was actually anger, perhaps wounded pride.

"Then I must go. I am sorry, Senior Enchanter Wynne, but there is too much at stake to waste time on idle talk."

The words were far sharper than she would have liked, but she had tried many times over the course of Wynne's politely phrased (and probably well-meaning) tirade to extradite herself from the conversation. The Senior Enchanter had resisted each time, forcing her to the brusque dismissal. Lorelei did as she had said she would and left the other mage gaping after her, perhaps mumbling something about troublesome young people too proud for advice.

Lorelei had to admit that usually Wynne was better, at least with those that didn't have her assigned as their mentor. She winced, remembering poor Aneirin, and much later, Anders— who she'd felt much less sorry for— complaining about her tendency towards high-handed lectures about duty and destiny. She paused, orienting herself while she thought of the Elven apprentice who had openly fantasized about running off to live with the Dalish. She'd heard that he'd been hunted down and left for dead, but she found herself hoping that somehow he'd survived and managed to find his wild cousins— and that he'd been welcomed among them. She'd liked Aneirin, and understood his prickly demeanor for what it was— fear, sorrow, and a helpless, hopeless rage against what Wynne had probably told him was destiny.

Lorelei shook her head to clear it— she'd been very young when Aneirin had fled the tower, still speaking with a thick Orlesian accent and bullied because of her origins, size and timid manner. The Elf had been openly hostile to most, especially the humans, but though he had never been particularly kind towards her, he'd never once been cruel, either.

"Sister Lorelei," a bemused voice brought her back to reality, and she coloured, turning to Riordan with an apology on her lips. She had volunteered to run messages around the camp while the more sturdy set about setting it up in its new location, and with no more messages to deliver, she should have joined those defending its borders.

When she saw Riordan's face, even her apology escaped her— his expression was grave.

"Riordan, what is it?"

"Duncan has asked me to assemble the Junior Grey Wardens," he explained, and she nodded, glancing around for more of her brethren. "You are the last; come, we are meeting in Duncan's tent."

With growing unease, Lorelei followed him to Duncan's tent. It was not his original tent from Ostagar, but the one he'd almost died in while being tended by Wynne and Anders; it had been his ever since.

* * *

"But when a Warden deals the final blow, the soul of the Archdemon is drawn into him— or her— and it is destroyed, along with the soul of the Grey Warden."

"In death, sacrifice," Carver breathed the last line of the Grey Warden creed, and the words hung in the sudden silence that fell, then, heavy on the shoulders of all assembled.

"Does the King know this? The Teyrn?" Warren was the first to regain his composure and address the practical problems this requirement presented, "Surely this information is vital, from a strategic standpoint."

"It is one of our greatest secrets," Duncan explained, and Warren snorted.

"It's impractical to keep this from them," he warned, "The Teyrn doubts that Grey Wardens are even necessary and it is not unlikely that the King believes that he will deal the final blow himself." By 'not unlikely', Warren meant 'with brilliant, foolish certainty', if his face and voice were believed rather than his words.

"The King is—" Duncan paused, and Lorelei watched his face as he considered his next words, "The King is an important ally—"

"Actually, he isn't." The few that did not need to turn their heads sharply to look at her were staring just as hard as those that did, and though the attention made Lorelei's stomach drop into the rocky soil beneath her feet, she forced herself to continue. "The majority of the Ferelden army that survives is commanded by Loghain. The Ash Warriors also follow the Teyrn, rather than the King. The Dalish, the Dwarves and the Mages are all here to honour treaties with the Grey Wardens of Ferelden, and though the Empress's forces outnumber the Teyrn's men, they are essentially untested against the darkspawn Horde. One experienced Dwarven warrior is probably worth twenty Chevaliers; their horses are easily spooked by the scent of darkspawn, let alone the reality of them, and without their horses, most of them are no match for Ferelden troops or Dalish hunters or even a half-trained mage. The King is little more than window dressing— he is only important from a political standpoint, and even then that is only as long as Teyrn Loghain remains staunchly loyal to him." She inclined her head to Riordan and Chion, who both seemed amused, and then to Duncan, who was wearing that same speculative expression that he'd worn before inviting her to join the Grey Wardens.

"You have— thought this through very thoroughly." Lorelei squirmed, just a little, before she was able to pull together some of the wayward shreds of her composure. _Thinking_ was sort of what she did, wasn't it?

"When I was discussing the plan to salvage who I could from Ostagar," she explained, "I had to decide on who was most important. King Cailan only made the list as long as he could be rescued along with you, and the other Grey Wardens— or with the Teyrn himself."

"You have not shared this openly, I hope," Duncan spoke slowly, and seemed visibly relieved when she shook her head. "That is good. We are not in a position to risk any alliance, no matter how small its value appears to be." He did not say that her perspective was flawed, but Lorelei caught the implication all the same.

"The Teyrn needs to know about the Archdemon," Warren pressed, leaning forward as he spoke, "He is drawing up the strategy for the next battle, and if he does not know how best to use the Grey Wardens, it may doom us all." Lorelei had spent enough time with Warren to know that his insistence was based on more than residual loyalty to Loghain; the former Captain had distinguished himself in service to Gwaren. While the prickly Teyrn appreciated loyalty, he promoted for competence; when Warren had become a Grey Warden, Loghain had felt the loss of a solid warrior with a gift for leadership.

"Our secrets are kept out of necessity—"

"Teyrn Loghain is our _strategist_ ," Lorelei did not intend for the words to come out as sharply as they had, nor for her voice to be as cold as it was, but there was no sense repeating herself, either. She continued, "Warren is right. He should be told— and so should the King, if only so that he doesn't attempt to make the final blow himself— you have all but said that this would doom us all." When Lorelei risked a glance in Warren's direction, there was a tiny smile of thanks awaiting her. He had deflected insults to her intelligence and competence enough that he was more than due the same favour.

"You were right to recruit this one, Duncan," Riordan said, and Lorelei winced at the praise.

"There is something else," she said softly, "While we are speaking of secrets." Duncan's gaze, she realised, was every bit as intense as Teyrn Loghain's— though he was warmer, gentler, she found him no less intimidating. Alistair had told her about Ser Jory, and his decision to cut the man down rather than allow him to walk away from the Joining. She'd had much less trouble believing it than Alistair had, and he'd actually been there to witness it. She'd had more trouble accepting that it was necessary than she did believing it had happened.

The others were watching her, too, and while she had already revealed her strange abilities to them, she had not been able to bring herself to tell Duncan and Chion— or any of the Orlesian Wardens, Riordan included. She had also not told anyone save Warren of the price she paid for using the power that linked Grey Wardens to each other, to the darkspawn, and to the Archdemon.

"This will take some time," she admitted, and then she lowered herself into a seated position and waited for the rest of them to follow suit. Warren and Alistair both changed places with the men on either side of her, and she found the gesture more comforting than she cared to admit. Duncan and Riordan were the last to sit, sharing a significant glance. She took a deep breath, and began to tell them of her newly discovered talents, starting with her rare ability to enter the Fade at will and ending with the strange power she'd found in the Taint.

When she admitted, at Warren's insistence, to the cost of drawing on that strange energy in the darkspawn blood, most of her companions, Alistair and Warren at the forefront of them, declared that she would never use those abilities again, for the cost was too high.

Duncan, Chion and Riordan did not join in this argument, all of them wearing nearly identical expressions of cold calculation. It made her feel like her bones were coated with ice, her blood cool and sluggish in her veins. A part of her had known, immediately upon discovery, that no matter the personal cost, her power was a weapon to be considered and used if necessary, but she found herself less at peace with the idea now that it was written all over the senior Wardens' faces.

It was one thing to possess a weapon with such a terrible personal price; it was another thing entirely to accept that the decision to use it was no longer your own.

* * *

"Duncan can't seriously be considering—!" She imagined that if Alistair had been speaking of anyone else, he would have been livid, but instead, her Chantry-trained friend was white with horror and disbelief.

"In war, victory," Jowan's voice, now laced with grim humour, had lost most of its whine, though it still had a distinctively nasal sound. "No matter the cost."

"But—" Alistair stared at Lorelei, his expression pleading, "The cost of _this_ , surely—" The feelings that had he had so shocked Lorelei by declaring were plain on his face, and she had to look away.

"The Grey Wardens do what they must to prevail against the darkspawn. Duncan warned us all that some of those choices could be rather ugly." Carver winced, even as he spoke, "I don't like it. I don't think anyone likes it— Duncan included— but..."

"We have to consider every option available." Lorelei was actually rather proud of how calm she sounded, how indifferent to the whole idea of— her stomach turned as she finished the thought, and her pride fled in the face of the reality of it.

"Every— Maker." Alistair covered his face with his hands. "I don't even want to think about this. It's too horrible to contemplate."

"What is too horrible to contemplate," Lorelei barely recognized the voice as her own, "Is the Blight spreading unchecked. Women being turned into broodmothers and men and children being killed or Tainted or devoured. Thousands and thousands of darkspawn, raging across Ferelden— and then the rest of Thedas— unchecked. I don't want to die, Alistair, but my life is just _one_ life, like any other; it cannot be worth more than hundreds, thousands of lives."

"I—" Alistair was staring at her as if she'd struck him with a mortal blow; her breath caught in her throat, and she noticed the tell-tale blurring at the corners of her vision that heralded tears and a massive headache.

"Alistair—" she realised, too late, that she'd gone too far, and Alistair took large gulps of air as he struggled with himself.

"No. I don't want to hear any more of this," his voice broke, and she felt like her heart was breaking right along with it. "No more." The almost-templar paused for a moment, as if he had more to say, then with a final glance at Lorelei, turned and took several shaky steps before breaking into a run. When she moved to follow him, Warren's hand was on her shoulder— not holding her fast, but warning her not to follow.

She was still staring after him when a shadow moved at the edge of her vision; when she turned her head, she caught the barest glimpse of a golden-eyed wolf before it was gone.

* * *

"Long ago, in the time of Arlathan, our people walked the Beyond freely— perhaps as you do," Lanaya spoke in a hushed, reverent voice, and Lorelei shifted, wondering if the Dalish Keeper felt that the Dalish had been betrayed, somehow, to have a gift that belonged to the Elves given to a Human. That it was a Human with Elven blood probably made the desecration complete— Humans had stolen from the Dalish the children of one of their own, and an ancient gift with it. She did not voice such thoughts aloud, of course, but all the same, it cast a bitter light on what the Keeper was telling her.

"Among our people, such a gift would have been recognised immediately," Lanaya continued, provoking the wry smile that Lorelei quashed as soon as it appeared.

"I am probably quite lucky that it wasn't," she replied, thinking back on how different her life would have been if the Chantry had known that she could enter the Fade with little more than a thought. She had barely— and belatedly— been deemed strong enough to attempt a Harrowing, so there was no doubt in her mind that her life would have ended at the point of a templar's sword.

"Your Chantry is— very strict with such things," the Keeper said slowly, and Lorelei smiled at her, knowing an effort in diplomacy when she saw it.

"You need not mince words with me, Keeper Lanaya," she answered, "I—" she winced, "I know what the Chantry is capable of." The Keeper paused, then, and tilted her head.

"Is it true, what Neria told me?" She asked finally, "You have— Elven blood?" Lorelei nodded.

"I understand that this is considered a desecration," Lorelei's voice seemed to lower of its own accord, and she could not force it much higher than a whisper. "But this is true. Perhaps this is why I have this gift— passed down from shared ancestors."

"Do you— know any of your family?" Lorelei frowned, thinking.

"I— I carry my father's name," she admitted, "But other than bits of pieces of their story, I do not know them. The Chantry considers my origins to be something of an embarrassment." Her lips twisted, and she knew that her attempt at a smile was a failure, lips pulled into a rictus that was a bitter parody of joy. If she had Dalish cousins, she was sure that her existence would be even more of an embarrassment to them. She forced her face to go blank, not wanting to make Lanaya too uncomfortable. "They thought my mother a triumph, you see— they thought her Dalish mother heartless for trying to end her life before giving birth, and figured that taking in the half-Elven get of a Chevalier and a Dalish heathen whore—" she flinched even as she spoke the words, and though Lanaya winced, she gestured for Lorelei to continue, with a sad smile that indicated that she knew that Lorelei spoke the words as a quote, and not as a truth, "—That it would prove that the followers of the Chantry were so much better than the wild, heathen Elves that had been slaughtered on the land they built cities upon." Lorelei paused, "I do not believe that my Dalish grandmother had kin still living, and my father— my father serves at the Orlesian Circle of Magi as a Tranquil mage."

"And _that_ is such a _horrid_ practice," Lanaya was scowling, "And a waste of a precious gift." Lorelei nodded numbly, knowing that few would ever understand the Rite of Tranquility to be anything other than a horror, a defiling of what constituted person-hood. Perhaps they were right to see it so, but Lorelei could not bring herself to look upon the Tranquil with the same horror that gripped others. She was sad for what they had lost or sacrificed, but all the same— she could not rob them of the last vestiges of personhood. It felt like a second desecration.

"I understand how it would seem to be so— sometimes, it is almost a mercy," Lanaya flinched, and Lorelei smiled one of her gentlest smiles, "In the case of my father, it was not, and yet—" She shook her head, "I cannot explain why, but I hope that were I to meet him I could be glad of it— not glad that he was Tranquil, but glad that he lived, and was capable of some measure of— comfort."

"Surely death would be preferable to such a life, living as a shell of a person," Lanaya waved her hands, and Lorelei spread hers.

"To fail a Harrowing is to be consumed by a demon, then slain," she explained, as gently as she could, "To some, that would be a fate to be feared as well. I do not believe that Tranquil mages are without a soul, or— it is hard to describe. I cannot know what it is like to be Tranquil, and even when they explain it themselves, it is difficult to understand. I cannot imagine that I could do a better job of explaining it than they— but they are not without will, or wit, or even— as many think— personality. They feel sensation as anyone else, just not— anguish, fear, anger, passion."

"It is— not something I believe I could understand," Lanaya responded carefully, but Lorelei knew that despite the fact that the idea still horrified her, the Keeper had listened, and was considering that perhaps there was another way to view it.

"It is enough to know that while the Tranquil do not feel emotions, they are not simply soulless husks. They are still people, capable of independent thought and action. It feels wrong to think of them as anything less, like an added insult to one who has already suffered a terrible injury."

"Then why do they serve the Chantry, if they are not mindless?" At this, Lorelei smiled— this was a favourite thought of hers, one that was, perhaps, a little cruel-minded, but she enjoyed it all the same.

"Many are unnerved by the Tranquil," she said, warming to the topic, "I sometimes wonder what would happen if someone presented them with other options— if there were another place for them to live comfortably, where they were not reviled. The Tranquil are not forbidden from leaving the Circle— many never do, but if they wished it, the Templars would not stop them, unless, perhaps, they left as a large and took the income they generate with them. It is mages who are a danger, and while they are often referred to as Tranquil mages, the Chantry considers them to be mages no more. The Chantry is adamant that the Tranquil are not slaves; I have often wondered what would happen if they decided to leave."

"If your— father— were to approach you, would you welcome him?" She had the feeling that this was some sort of test, but Lorelei found that she had answered before she could think about how best to pass it.

"Of course. I do not know what I could possibly offer, but I would do whatever was in my power to make sure that he was safe and comfortable."

"This would not pain you?"

"It is always painful to confront what could have been," she said simply, "I did not say it would be easy— only that I would do it." Lanaya nodded, and Lorelei frowned, wondering how they'd managed to wander so far from where their conversation had started.

"Well," Lanaya said ruefully, and Lorelei wondered if the Keeper's thoughts had run along the same lines as her own, "Perhaps we have spoken long enough of such sad things. I should like to have you demonstrate this gift of yours again, if you have recovered enough to do so. It is too bad that you cannot bring others into the Beyond with you." The last bit was said wistfully, and Lorelei wondered, just for a moment, what her life might have been like, if she'd been born among the Dalish.

She did not wonder long, for it was time to dismiss such idle thinking and step into the Fade, where even the most innocent things could draw the wrong sort of attention.

Not for the first time, Lorelei wondered at how few demons she had seen. The Chantry insisted that all mages drew demons to them— never mind ones that could enter the Fade at will— but since Redcliffe, she had felt only hints of them in the Fade, and only when she had drawn deeply on the well of power there, twisting the Veil around her. There was always a gathering of spirits, but they rarely interacted with her directly, staying at the edges of her awareness— curious, perhaps, but not demanding.

Keeper Lanaya had told her that the Dalish did not distinguish between spirits and demons the way that the Chantry did— instead, the inhabitants of the Beyond were all considered to be various degrees of dangerous. Lorelei was beginning to think that perhaps that was the right of it— perhaps it wasn't that she hadn't seen demons, but that she simply hadn't identified them as such.

It was a rather sobering thought, and she held it at the forefront of her mind, hoping that it would help her avoid becoming careless.

* * *

Lorelei let out a ragged breath as she made her way back from her meeting with Lanaya, who turned out to be as exhausting a magical teacher as she was a keen conversationalist. It wasn't that she wasn't fascinated by Dalish lore and magic— she was— but the Keeper was probably one of the most driven and focussed mages she'd ever met. She had no doubt that it was partly due to her upbringing as an outsider among the Dalish— a child born to 'flat-ears' who had been abused by humans and then rescued by Zathrian, their previous Keeper.

She saw the boots first, and her immediate reaction was surprise— at the very least, she should have heard anyone in heavy metal armour crashing through the brush. As she raised her eyes and spied first the velvet skirt, then the all-too-familiar etched breastplate that were distinctly _templar_ in design, her surprise turned to apprehension, then dread— and then she was looking up at the tired face of the Circle's Knight-Commander himself. She admitted to herself that out of all the templars for her to run into, Greagoir was probably one of the least likely to run her through without provocation. This did not, however, do much to settle her racing pulse.

"Knight-Commander Greagoir," she breathed, and though she couldn't quite force herself to sound glad, she was proud that her voice didn't crack.

"Grey Warden Lorelei," Lorelei blinked both at the resigned note in his voice, and his complete lack of hostility. "I would speak with you a moment, if that is not too much to ask." She weighed her options— she had always respected Greagoir and his efforts to be fair, even at his harshest. If he favoured templars over mages, it was no more than Irving did the opposite, and though he feared magic, he had become skilled enough at telling the truly dangerous from the mostly benign. It was a flawed system, but she believed that Greagoir did the very best that his capacity within it allowed for.

"What can I do for you, Knight-Commander?" One corner of his mouth lifted slightly as he looked down at her, undoubtedly remembering her as she had been, the timid Orlesian apprentice whose knowledge of the common tongue was limited to bits and pieces of the Chant of Light. It had been Greagoir that she'd approached, begging for a chance to try at the Harrowing rather than be made Tranquil, and somehow, he had managed to convince the First Enchanter. It was a conversation that she'd often wished she'd been able to overhear.

Greagoir sighed, shook his head, and then gestured for her to precede him. She hesitated— he had indicated the direction of the Circle of Magi's camp. She'd been carefully avoiding the whole area and its inhabitants since before they'd moved into the Southron Hills to prepare for another attempt at drawing out the Archdemon. After a few tense moments, she straightened her shoulders and walked stiffly ahead, paying special attention to not tripping and falling on her face as Greagoir walked beside her, matching his pace to hers.

"What are we going to do with you?" He asked finally, and she stopped, startled at the unfamiliar emotion in the aged templar's voice. She forced herself to start walking again while her mind chewed at that detail.

"I am a Grey Warden," she said finally, "So I suppose that I must simply be endured." If the sentiment in his voice had been unexpected, his laughter was even more so— a dry chuckle rising up from somewhere behind Andraste's flaming sword. She was struck by the thought that perhaps the Knight-Commander had actually _missed_ her. She heard his armour creak, and a quick glance reassured her that he was not reaching for his sword, but merely running a metal-clad hand through hair that held none of its original colour, having greyed to capacity. Lorelei felt like there was more white than she remembered, and she was struck by the fact that the Knight-Commander was as old as Irving, perhaps even older.

"I suppose that is so," he said finally, "I must admit, while I was not surprised to hear that the Grey Wardens had recruited one of our own, I was surprised that it was you." Lorelei made a sound that was neither agreement nor disagreement, but simply an acknowledgement that she'd heard. "And then you were there, at the Circle, bringing us an apprentice and taking away a prisoner and a promise." He snorted, "And then to hear that you had harboured a blood mage!" Lorelei flinched— she'd expected the anger, but the note of hurt in the Knight-Commander's tone took her by surprise and cut deep. "I still don't understand why you kept Jowan from justice."

"Perhaps if you had seen him," she said softly— so softly that the Knight-Commander leaned towards her to hear— "In that dungeon at Redcliffe, starved and tortured..."

"He seems well enough now."

"It took me hours to heal him," she answered sharply, and she moved away from the templar as if she'd been thrown from him, stumbling and then waving off his hands when he reached out to steady her. "You didn't see what I saw, Knight-Commander. You weren't there to see what that horrible woman did— ordered to be done, allowed to be done— it is all the same, in the end. And perhaps if you had, you wouldn't have cared." She looked up into his eyes, then, and lifted her chin, pressing her lips together in a thin, angry line before she continued. "Perhaps compassion is a hindrance to your duty as a templar. Perhaps I am soft— but if I am soft, I am glad for it." He was studying her as if he'd never seen her before.

"And your duty as a Grey Warden?" He asked finally, "Does that not come first?"

"My duty is to more than myself, and it cannot be forsworn," she said finally, knowing that there was no way to keep the sadness from her voice, "And when it comes down to it, I will do as I must. But when duty allows, even demands, that I practice compassion and mercy where I can, I cannot deny myself that. Tell me, Greagoir," she smiled at the surprised expression that answered her strangely informal address, "Could you strike down Irving and not be pained by it? The two of you have been together in the Tower for so long that most could not imagine one without the other. I have always imagined that you were fond of the First-Enchanter, and he of you, despite your positions opposite each other on most issues." The Knight-Commander stepped back, as if struck— and perhaps he had been, in a sense. The statement might have called some trouble down on her, or Greagoir, or Irving, had she spoken it while still a member of the Circle.

"So to answer your question, Knight-Commander— there is nothing to be done with me, and you should not concern yourself so." This time, when she smiled, Greagoir recoiled, as if seeing a danger where he had expected something benign, "Besides, I will likely be dead before it becomes much of an issue."

She spun, feeling the mud make a wet sound under her heel, and walked stiffly away, leaving the Knight-Commander at the edge of the Circle's camp. She knew, from the burning feeling between her shoulder blades, that he stared after her as she went— and probably for a while after she'd faded from view.

* * *

Sten's movements were smooth and practiced as he ran the whetstone along the edge of his blade, the cause of her first glimpse behind the stoic mask that the Qunari warrior had worn, even while caged and on his way to dying of starvation.

"Sten," she said softly, and when he looked up, his eyes were reddened and surrounded by shadows that indicated a lack of sleep.

"I was sent here to answer a question," he said finally, "And now that I have the answer, I am unable to return." Lorelei paused, knowing that the standard platitudes were not appropriate with Sten as they would be with others— in fact, he was more likely to be insulted by them than comforted.

"What was the question?"

"The Arishok asked me: What is the Blight?"

"And now you know." He nodded, and Lorelei crossed the distance between them and sat, folding her robes and legs under her as she did so. The ground was harder here than it was in the wilds, and cold from the stone that made it that way. Sten looked down at her briefly, the difference in their height exaggerated to almost comical lengths by the fact that she sat on the ground, beside the rock upon which he was seated.

"Yes." He cocked his head, as if listening to something, then continued. "I think I have a better understanding of your people, as well."

"How do you mean?"

"I was confused," he explained, "At how people here lead such complicated lives. The nobles wish to be warriors, the warriors wish to be merchants, the merchants wish to be nobles." Lorelei nodded, knowing that Sten would not mistake the gesture for agreement. Sten understood, as few others did, that the simplest things could sometimes have the most complex meanings. "For my people it is much simpler: one name, one purpose, one duty." He paused, "Now I find myself with a second duty, a second purpose, and even a second name— and I do not know which is the right one."

"You swore to follow me against the Blight," she said finally, and Sten inclined his head, just slightly.

"I thought perhaps that I would find my atonement, and once I had my sword— perhaps it was too much to hope for, that I could eventually go home." She knew the note in his voice immediately for what it was: homesickness and disappointment. She rose to her feet, just a little too quickly, and she wobbled, managing to regain her balance more by luck than grace. Sten shook his head, and she waited for the customary remark about her frailty. It never came.

"At the very least, you have found atonement," she said finally, and he regarded her solemnly with those strange violet eyes of his. "The Grey Wardens consider the Joining to be a purging of one's former life, all sins included." She winced when she realised the other implications of her statement, but Sten did not react angrily to it. "I think perhaps that is too lofty of them, too simple-minded. Our past does not disappear because we have drunk a poison— the past remains, and is unchanged even by death." She took a shaky breath, not sure exactly where her words were leading, but determined to put one after the other until she reached whatever destination awaited her. "I could not have persuaded them not to conscript you, and for that I am— I am sorry." His eyes narrowed as he watched her, and she wondered if he was angry or if he simply suspected that the fool mage would begin to blubber and leak all over the place. "So you must stay here in Ferelden for longer, and if you do ever return to Seheron—" he started slightly, and she allowed herself a small smile for remembering the name of his home, "—If you ever do return, you will not be the same man that left. For this, there is nothing that can be done. I cannot tell you which purpose is more important, but I can tell you which is more immediate. You swore to follow me against the Blight. Perhaps we will speak more of another purpose after the Archdemon is slain, but for now, that is all I can offer you." Sten rose to his full height, and she felt like a mouse looking up at a lion.

"Very well," he said finally, "I will hold to that, for now. I am still a warrior, at least."

"Yes," she said, and then she laughed, suddenly tickled. Sten stared down at her impassively, waiting for the foolish _bas saarebas_ to explain her joke. "I am sorry— it just struck me as funny, all of a sudden. You came here leading soldiers, did you not?" He nodded, still apparently not seeing the humour. "You will be leading them again," she explained, "As a Grey Warden, you are a commander of men once more— while you lead different men against a very different enemy, it is similar enough, is it not?" Sten eyed a pair of Chevaliers, drunk and leaning on each other as they stumbled past, apparently having lost their way back to their own camp, with obvious distain.

"There is that, at least," he said, and while his voice was still resigned, it seemed lighter, somehow. She was glad to have lifted his spirits, even if she had felt— and in all probably looked— like an idiot through most of her attempt.

As she walked away, she felt a flash of confusion as she heard him mutter to himself, "I am still Sten." She couldn't help but be confused about what he meant, until a memory came to mind.

 _It is a perfectly acceptable thing, to be called what you are_ , he had said. _It is how it is done among my people._

It had never occured to Lorelei that "Sten" could be anything other than his name, that perhaps he was _Sten_ in the same way that she was _Warden_ — and now he was Warden and Sten both. It seemed both very practical and profoundly sad to think that those who were Qunari didn't have a name that was theirs at birth, that identified them until death without any expectations attached to it.

And who would she be, she wondered, if she had never been Lorelei? Even though she was often called _mage_ or _warden_ , she had always had her name, for herself even if for no one else.

* * *

"My father found this blade in the Deep Roads," Cailan explained, displaying the sword with a flourish that reflected flashes of lamplight around the large tent. It was a fine blade, and Lorelei could hear a faint humming, caused by the magic in the glowing golden runes, which was powerful enough to set the blade vibrating. "I've been saving it," Cailan continued, eyes alight with excitement, "I plan to use it to end the Archdemon himself!" Lorelei shifted uncomfortably at Alistair's side, wishing once again that Duncan had not brought them to this private audience with the King.

"Your Majesty," Duncan spoke in his most soothing voice, though there was an edge to it that Lorelei only ever heard in the young King's presence— or sometimes, Alistair's. "I am afraid that you cannot be the one to deal the final blow against the Archdemon." Lorelei felt Alistair's metal-clad fingertips brush against the back of her hand, and glanced up at him to find saw that he too was holding his breath.

"What?" The King's shoulders slumped, and the shining blade made a sharp sound as it hit the table. Lorelei flinched.

"A Grey Warden must kill the Archdemon," Duncan was explaining, "It is the only way to end a Blight."

"Surely the beast is slain, no matter the hand holds the weapon that kills it." Duncan was shaking his head, while Cailan's face was full of mutiny. Lorelei was struck by how Alistair resembled his half-brother— she wondered why she noticed it so sharply when the King pouted.

"With any other creature," Duncan was at his most patient, "That would be true. But unless a Grey Warden slays the Archdemon, its spirit will seek the body of the nearest darkspawn, twisting it into the shape of a dragon and beginning its reign anew."

"I think you want all the glory for yourself, Duncan," Cailan was just a little too cheerful, as if he thought everything that the Warden-Commander had just told him was in jest. Lorelei shot a warning glance at Alistair, who kept silent with visible effort. Petulant as he was, Cailan was perhaps closer to being swayed than he appeared, and Duncan's progress would be ruined if Alistair made a statement to defend his mentor's honour.

"It is for this purpose that Grey Wardens exist," Duncan continued, "We alone can ensure the end of an Archdemon, and thus a Blight. This is our victory, and our sacrifice."

"It is not all about glory, then," Loghain's voice was startling, and Lorelei felt herself turning along with the others to face the tall man who suddenly filled the entrance to Cailan's tent. Lorelei wondered just how much he'd overheard— she hoped enough.

"The Grey Warden who slays the Archdemon is also destroyed." Lorelei wasn't sure where she'd found her voice, or how she'd managed to deliver the words in a suitably grave tone, but even King Cailan seemed unwilling to break the silence that fell at the revelation.

* * *

"Warden," Lorelei could not have suppressed her smile if she'd wanted to. The greeting was spoken with such warmth and welcome that it far outstripped the heat of the fire where Kallian and Neria sat, the latter with her customary shy smile and the former without any trace of hostility. "There's still some stew left, if you're hungry." Lorelei's relationship with Kallian Tabris had improved in rather large jumps since their tumultuous first meeting, in which the golden-haired waif had threatened first Jowan, then Lorelei with her very sharp knives and equally sharp tongue. She had later proven to have a mind that was far sharper than either, and Lorelei had been glad— on more than one occasion— that they had managed to convince her to become their ally.

"I—" her stomach growled, and she flushed, even as Neria tittered, which was as close as the young mage ever got to laughing. "Yes, thank you." She took the steaming bowl— and her seat— gratefully. Her first few bites were tentative, but the stew was surprisingly fine, and before she realised it, she found herself finished— and the object of amusement.

"This is—" she paused, trying to find the right words, "This is incredible." Kallian, in a moment of uncharacteristic modesty, simply shrugged.

"I learned to cook from my father— learning to hunt, after I left the alienage, was much more difficult." Kallian had spoken very little of her past— Lorelei had learned bits and pieces from Neria as the soft-spoken mage had described their travels together, where Kallian had kept them protected with her wits and fed with her gifts for cooking and snares. That she had no gift at all for bows was something that seemed to both amuse and annoy the Dalish hunters that had tried to pull her into their tight-knit community, especially once they learned that her grandmother had actually been Dalish.

She had learned substantially more about the mess from which Kallian had fled when the Orlesian Grey Wardens had tried to conscript her. The threats had been made quietly, which is what made it possible for Duncan to rescind the recruitment— which he did very hesitantly. Apparently he had wanted to recruit her mother, once, and had backed down with great reluctance.

"And now you can do both," Neria said happily, ignoring the fact that Kallian still 'hunted' by trap and snare alone, "And I'm learning, too." Lorelei shared a grin with Kallian— Neria's child-like glee was triggered most often by knowledge of all kinds, and it was catching.

"Not that I'm not grateful," Lorelei said gently, "But didn't you send for me, Neria?"

"Oh yes!" When Neria nodded, her pale curls bounced around, orange and gold in the firelight. "I had something to tell you. I probably should have told you about it earlier, but I was just coming to terms with it myself—" Neria stopped suddenly, and made a rather exaggerated attempt to appear solemn, straightening her back and her hair and leaning forward and fixing Lorelei with a calm, steady gaze.

"I thought that maybe I should start using that knowledge I was given in those ruins in the Brecilian Forest," she said gravely, "And that it's about time that I shared it with you, too."

* * *

Lorelei stepped out of the trees and froze, realising that in her quest for solitude, she'd disturbed someone else's. She took too long to recover; the tall figure turned to face the intruder with an expression that went from irritation to irony.

"Warden."

"I didn't realise that anyone was here," she said immediately, "I am sorry for having disturbed you." She took a step back, reluctant to turn her back to the imposing man, "I'll just go—"

"Stay," he said finally, and she blinked, surprised anew at his complete lack of hostility towards her, an _Orlesian_. He gestured to the air beside her and then turned away from her once more, staring out into the night. She hesitated, then gathered her courage and walked to stand beside him, picking out the small signal fires in the night, lit to mark their positions— and visible only from the higher ground to which they'd retreated.

"Tell me, Warden," Loghain said, "How severe do you expect your punishment to be?"

"What do you mean, your grace?" She forced herself not to look at him, but she heard him shift and knew that he was studying her.

"Do you believe your Commander to be a fool?" There was a note of humour in his voice that suggested that Loghain did not think nearly as highly of Duncan as did his King.

"Your— suspicion— of the Grey Wardens is not a secret, your grace," she said slowly, "And I imagine that your methods of discovering any clandestine activities within the King's camp are your own." She was rewarded with a low chuckle, and she enjoyed it while it lasted; it was followed by a still, stiff moment during which she shifted her weight from one foot to the other and pictured him picking her up with one large hand and tossing her over a cliff like a bag of kittens.

"I gather that this— requirement— that your leader spoke of must be true, if it meant risking the King's ire." Or the King's quest for personal glory, which is what Loghain left unsaid.

"Yes," she kept her answer simple and her doubts to herself— it had been centuries since the last Blight, so none of them could know from experience. What concerned her most was how reluctant Duncan had been to share the truth with the King. She angled her body towards the Teyrn, and twisted her chin up and to the side so that she could study his face— she could make out only the line of his profile, partially obscured by his steel-clad shoulder. She turned away, crossing her arms across her chest. She felt, somehow, as if she'd crossed an invisible line when she and Warren had arranged for Loghain to be tipped off about their meeting with the King. They'd been discrete, of course, but Duncan was not stupid, despite her concerns about some of his decisions.

"Why did you do it?" She started, then took several steadying breaths. She'd lost herself in thought again, managing to forget in whose presence she stood.

"I— what?"

"Why," Loghain shifted again as he spoke, with painful care and precision, "Did you arrange for me to find out about this— Grey Warden secret— concerning the Archdemon? It was quite obvious that your Commander did not intend to include me in his confidence."

"It is not trivial information," she said, "Not knowing that the Archdemon must be slain by a Grey Warden would have crippled you as our strategist."

"Your Commander clearly did not think so."

"The Warden-Commander and I disagree on this point," she admitted, thinking darkly that she and Duncan disagreed on much more than any of that— and dismissing the thoughts of ghouls and broodmothers as quickly as they appeared.

"So you see no problem in disobeying your superior," despite the amused tone in his voice, Lorelei stiffened, sensing a threat.

"I see plenty of problems with it," she said softly, "But I did what had to be done, all the same." Loghain snorted, and she wondered if he was disgusted or amused. She could not see his face well enough to tell.

"Would you disregard discipline as readily as you would your orders, I wonder?" Lorelei hugged herself more tightly, "The standard punishment for a first offense of insubordination is the lash." She flinched, and she knew, somehow, that he noticed, and that her answer would carry significant weight.

"If that is what the Warden-Commander decided, I would submit, as is my duty," she said finally, "I accepted the consequences of my choice when I made it."

"And yet, you went out of your way to be discrete."

"My intention was not to publicly undermine Duncan's authority."

"So you have done it privately," there was a distinct edge to Loghain's voice, and she frowned, "Tell me, Warden, is that really any better?"

"No— and still, I believe that it was necessary. If you are to devise our tactics— if your support is to be counted on— you must know why the Grey Wardens are needed, and in what capacity."

"You are right," she sucked in a breath as he spoke; it was not the grudging admission, nor the startled declaration that she had heard far too often since the Tower of Ishal— and if she was entirely honest, for some time before that— but as startled as she was by those three words, it was the ones that followed that made her feel like the earth had been dragged out from under her feet:

"I do not know what sort of creature you are," his voice was low and husky and far more solemn than she had ever heard it, "To inspire loyalty and protectiveness in men who are more than capable of resisting women with far more charm and poise, and to inspire trust in those that do not have any to spare. You are not what you appear to be, Warden, of this I am sure, but I am beginning to believe in you, all the same."

It was probably the highest compliment that she'd ever been— and possibly would ever be— given, especially considering the source of it. The stony Teyrn turned away from her, and she returned her eyes back towards the horizon, and the approaching edge of the Blight.


	13. Precipice

"My duty is to see the Blight ended," the King insisted, and Lorelei forced herself to look away, to study the faces of the guards around him rather than the hard lines of anger etched in Loghain's face as Cailan dismissed him with a wave. Had Lorelei known the nature of the missives carried by the messenger when she'd first run into him, the subject would have been brought up much earlier; instead, Loghain had burst into the King's tent to confront his son-in-law, having been driven to a terrible temper because of rumours circulating around the camp— and the horrible suggestion that Cailan would not acknowledge his Queen's child as his heir.

"And what of your duty to your Queen and unborn heir, Cailan? To the future of your country?" Lorelei's eyes fell on Alistair, who wore an expression that was probably not all that dissimilar from her own. They should not have been bearing witness to this argument, more so than any other— it was a painfully personal matter— but they had been summoned by the King and could not leave until he dismissed them. Lorelei focussed on her feet, willing herself still as Alistair shifted his weight from one foot to the other, making wet sounds in the mud beside her.

"Ferelden has no future if the Blight is not dealt with." Cailan's armour squeaked slightly as he moved, and when Lorelei looked up, it was an effort not to shield her eyes from the glare of the sunlight flashing off its polished surface. "Loghain, my decision is final. I will lead this last assault and see the Archdemon destroyed— Anora can manage on her own at least until that is done." Lorelei reached out and took hold of Alistair's elbow as he let out a sputtering, half-begun protest. He moved forward only slightly, but it was enough that Cailan noticed, and she quickly withdrew her hand, praying that Alistair would hold his tongue.

"Your Majesty," he said slowly, softly, and Lorelei bit down on the inside of her cheek, "I am sure that Duncan would understand, if you were required to be in Denerim to attend to your wife— and child." Something flashed across Cailan's face, and Lorelei called up the tiniest spell, a flash of light at her fingertips, and counted on his templar instincts to catch the warning. Alistair's shoulders straightened, and he glanced at her— just for a moment— and nodded in acknowledgement, though he looked anything but happy about it.

"There isn't even a child yet," Cailan said dismissively, "And a King's place is defending his country. Anora will understand, and there will be plenty of time to address the issue after the battle, while we celebrate—" Lorelei's breath caught in her throat as she noticed something else in Cailan's manner, and in Loghain's— the latter stiffened noticeably, and the lines in his face deepened.

Perhaps Cailan didn't believe that the Queen was truly pregnant— or if she was, he didn't believe that the child was his— but it was more likely that he simply didn't think the matter worth withdrawing from the battle and jeopardizing his quest for glory. His guards were already trading looks, and Lorelei figured that the rumours were already spreading from the King's camp to all over Ferelden. It had been enough that he intended to ignore the Queen's missive— delivered despite an apparent civil war in the north and darkspawn incursions in the south. Alistair stared at his half-brother as if he had never seen him before, and Lorelei realised that no amount of charm or glory could ever win back the almost-templar's respect for the legitimate heir of Maric Theirin; Alistair would never forgive his half-brother for being willing to risk having his own child named a bastard. Something odd seemed to pass between Alistair and Loghain, then, a kind of grim understanding that Lorelei hoped that Cailan didn't notice.

"If there is nothing further, your Majesty," she sounded like a mouse again— one being slowly, deliberately crushed by a heavy boot, no doubt— but she got the words out, and Cailan turned his bright blue eyes in her direction, "We really ought to be preparing for the battle."

"You will both be at my side, of course," he smiled, and Lorelei felt almost as if she had been struck. She glanced at Loghain briefly before replying, in her gentlest voice— the same one that had coaxed Connor Guerrin from his nightmares.

"I'm afraid not, your Majesty," Alistair was stiff beside her, probably wearing an expression far less politic than the one on his half-brother's face, "I'll be leading one of the smaller scouting parties with Sten, and Alistair will be leading another diversionary force with Anders, as we discussed in the strategy meeting. Your guard, and the main contingent of Grey Wardens, lead by Duncan, will fight with you." She could feel Loghain's eyes on her as she spoke, and she spread her hands in front of her in a gesture of appeasement for the mutinous King.

"I had expected to have the best of the Grey Wardens by my side." Lorelei blinked; she hadn't expected that Cailan would use that argument, though it was easy enough to counter.

"They will be, of course. Those attending you were hand-picked— they are among the most skilled and experienced fighters." It was true, of course; though they hadn't been picked solely for that reason, it did help make them more believable as the main force, the one that would be responsible for the Archdemon's defeat.

It made the lie easier. From the look on Alistair's face, the former templar still found the whole thing difficult to swallow, and Lorelei wondered— if Cailan hadn't been so dismissive about the news that the Queen was pregnant, and the suggestion that he should leave immediately so as to have a chance to attend the birth, would Alistair have been even less willing to mislead the King? There were few things that her comrade valued more than family.

"Right," Cailan said brightly, even as shouts and commands rang out around them, signalling the time for all of them to find their places.

"We do not have time to go over the whole plan again," Loghain said darkly, "I do hope that you remember your part in it, at least."

"Well! You are dismissed— we shall speak again when the head of that Blighted beast rests at my feet!"

Lorelei did not have to see Alistair's face to know that he was as glad for the escape as she was, and they both fled in opposite directions.

"And they shall be named Maleficar, accursed ones! They shall find no rest in this world or beyond!" The woman's voice had become steadily more shrill as it increased in volume, and from his rigid stance, Lorelei guessed that her templar attendant was able to resist the urge to cover his ears through sheer will alone.

"I beg your forgiveness, your Grace," Lorelei spoke in a deliberately quiet voice, so low that even the uppity priestess had to lean forward slightly to hear, "But I must attend to some very urgent business. Perhaps we will speak later, after the battle." The woman sniffed with obvious distain, and spoke to her templar guard as Lorelei bowed and began to make her exit.

"The rumours were right," she said, "Surely this Blight is a divine punishment upon Ferelden for putting mages and commoners above their proper stations." Lorelei felt her body freeze mid-step, muscles seizing painfully, starting at her legs. She forced herself to turn and confront the ugly comment, not because of a personal insult, but because of its greater significance in Ferelden politics, and the whispers that linked the sentiment with the Teryn Loghain and his daughter, the Queen.

"Your Grace," she said slowly, and the Grand Cleric stiffened, "I will assume that you did not mean for me to overhear your comment, but I will warn you all the same— such statements are inflammatory at best, treason at worst."

"Is that a threat?" Her manner was entirely too self-assured, and it put Lorelei on her guard. She had been meant to overhear the comment, and she cursed herself inwardly for not seeing the trap until she'd stepped into it. "You think your word would stand against mine, mage?"

"I think," she said, drawing the words out very carefully, "That the darkspawn are beyond having any sort of agenda. They do not preach, they do not conquer— they infect and consume." She tilted her head, watching the templar slide his sword back into its sheath when she made no move to approach. His hand remained on the hilt; she nodded to him to acknowledge the warning, and his stance relaxed by the slightest margin. "I cannot think of anyone upon whom I would wish such a fate." She had drawn a bit of an audience, and she forced herself to ignore the murmur of agreement that went up at her words— it would have softened her next remark, and she wanted to be as unyielding as possible, for she knew that trying to be 'commanding' didn't exactly play to her strengths.

"And— your Grace," she could feel the air turn slightly frosty, and realised that she was channelling cold just a little too hard. She clamped down on her magic immediately, knowing that being bowled over by a holy smite would completely ruin the intended effect. "I am properly addressed as Warden, should you continue to have difficulty remembering my name."

She was some distance away before any of the witnesses— the Grand Cleric included— were able to raise their voice above a whisper. She smiled, enjoying the moment, just a little, before she allowed the implications to settle in and ruin her mood. One did not antagonize the most highly ranking member of the Chantry in Ferelden without consequences— she knew this, perhaps better than most. Duncan was not going to be impressed; Alistair probably would be.

She was less worried about Duncan's opinion when she suddenly stopped in her tracks, realising the import of the Grand Cleric's statement about the Blight— and remembering where she'd first heard the sentiment.

"Son of a tied down—"

She turned abruptly and ran.

Lorelei caught herself thinking that the Teyrn might as well have been made of stone, he was so still— even his eyes seemed fixed as she spoke in a voice she barely recognized as her own. Her words came quickly, bleeding together and tripping her up, but still she spoke, as if stumbling to the end of them was the only way to save her own life.

She said more than she'd intended— the words were out before she had time to filter them, to soften their impact or make a futile effort to guide Loghain's opinion one way or another. She managed to hold back only the details of her strange gift— her accusations against the Arl and Arlessa of Redcliffe were not strengthened by her ability to walk in the Fade— and its possible applications against the Blight. It was in the silence that fell afterward that the full weight of what she'd done settled on her shoulders, threatening to crush her into fleshy remnants of herself against the rocky ground of where the combined armies intended to make a final stand against the Blight: one last attempt to spare most of Ferelden the devastating onslaught of the darkspawn.

When the large man finally rose from his chair, it was with speed that even a far younger man would envy, and it took all her will to keep herself from finding out if she could outrun the angry general. He stepped around her, said something to his guard, and then— with a surprisingly gentle touch— guided her to a chair, and applied enough pressure to her shoulders that she slumped into it, wincing slightly at the impact between hindquarters and simple, strong Gwaren wood. Loghain did not surround himself with the same opulent trappings that she'd seen in the tents of other nobles; there was nothing within his tent that did not serve a purpose. Lorelei wondered if the King indulged in needless luxuries, in part, because the Teyrn did not.

"Why have you come to me with this, Warden? On the morning of our battle?" Lorelei took a deep breath, started to speak, then stopped, having realised that she had nothing with which to respond. "Re-thinking your loyalties?" Even with the note of humour clear in his voice, she found herself struggling to keep her composure.

"I—" Loghain arched one eyebrow again, and she scowled at him for it until she remembered herself and felt the blood rushing away from her face— it was probably fleeing Loghain. She coughed. "I was— I was thinking that—"

"I thought we had already established that I was not going to eat you, Warden," he said finally, and she gaped at him, finally noticing just how tired— and resigned— he looked. "It is a pity that you keep needing me to remind you."

"You knew," she said finally, breath coming out in gasps between the words.

"I have made no secret of my suspicion of the Orlesians." Lorelei imagined that she looked something like a fish out of water, and for a moment, she wondered if Loghain was trying not to laugh at her— but he was suddenly grave, with no small amount of anger radiating from every inch of him. The 'trust' that he had implied the night before was lost to his ever-present suspicion, and she found that she almost mourned its absence. "So my question stands— what is it, Grey Warden, that you hope to gain by telling me of this now? Is it your intent to form a new alliance? Do you think you will find me gentler than your Orlesian masters?"

There was no helping it. Despite the danger, Lorelei laughed— it started as a hiccough and ended with ragged gasps as she bent over, trying to catch the odd breath as she gripped her ankles. It was just too ridiculous.

"My— Orlesian—" she choked again, and it was a few more moments before she straightened, having regained some measure of control over herself. Loghain's face was unreadable, though there was a spark of something that she thought might be a precursor to rage. She heeded its warning, and checked her tone. "I have no Orlesian masters, your Grace."

"No? You expect that the Senior Grey Wardens— and your Commander— will overlook your decision to inform me?"

"I expect that I will die in the coming battle," she said finally, and Loghain's hand went to his face, then to his hair as he digested her words. She was surprised by even the smallest hint of distress at her pronouncement— as much as she might have secretly wished it, it had never actually occurred to her that she would be missed. "It is my hope that the Archdemon will be slain, and the Blight ended, but I do not expect that I will live to see it."

"Then the matter will be settled— the Blight will be over and the Orlesians— Grey Warden and Chevalier alike— will depart Ferelden. This— conspiracy that you will not tell me how you came to be aware of— will be dealt with as any other would be."

"You need Grey Wardens in Ferelden."

"Do I?" He crossed his arms over his chest, "I don't suppose you are aware of the reason your order was expelled in the first place?" He looked immovable, but there was enough curiosity there to convince her that it was worth pressing forward. If Loghain had decided that she was a traitor, her legs would already be twitching uselessly as she spent her last moments dangling from his hands, choking out her last breaths. It was an encouraging thought, in its own way.

"The then-commander used the Wardens to support her own bid for the throne," she said, recognizing her dutiful student voice with some surprise. "A foreign army on Ferelden soil is a concern— and it should be— but Grey Wardens are needed to help the land recover from a Blight, to keep them safe from darkspawn slow to flee to the Deep Roads, nevermind the need to be vigilant for signs of yet another Blight." She paused, letting the words sink in before she made her suggestion, "The Grey Wardens that serve Ferelden need not be from Orlais— and perhaps there is room for them, under the right leadership, to actually practice this fabled political neutrality that I have heard being preached all over the place." Loghain stared at her for what felt like an eternity before a ghost of a smile flickered across his face and was gone.

"You are suggesting a Fereldan Order loyal to the Crown." She shook her head.

"The Grey Wardens could have a future in Ferelden— under the right leadership— without being a threat to the country's sovereignty." She glanced toward the tent's exit, feeling the wistful, fleeting desire to make her escape. She turned back to the Teyrn, who was watching her carefully. "I am not suggesting, I am saying it outright: the Grey Wardens are needed in Ferelden, and they can only stay— focussed on their duty, and not on currying favour— with your help."

"I hope you are not telling me that I will have to work with Duncan." His lips were twisted into a snarl, and she knew, suddenly, that there was a story there, one that she would likely never hear. In another life, she would have been eager to know the history between the two men— but now, as her own death loomed on the horizon, she was gripped by a strange, grim sort of practicality.

"Warren," she began to count on her fingers, "Theron. Carver. Alistair. Even Faren, for all he's a bit—" she gestured with her hands, and Loghain nodded, the corners of his lips tipping up by the tiniest amount. He had met the castless, red-haired Dwarf that could give Oghren serious competition in the pursuit of crass behaviour. "They are all capable leaders, and— none of them like this business. If any of them survives the battle, you have a decent candidate to work with. If they all do, you have the skeleton of an order, right there." Up went the eyebrow again.

"You expect me to believe that Maric's by-blow wouldn't seek to repeat history?" Lorelei snorted.

"The last thing Alistair wants is to be King," she snapped, and Loghain's other eyebrow joined its partner.

"Perhaps you truly believe that." She waved off his protest, surprising herself with her confidence.

"Alistair hates politics and would rather be as far away from them as possible." She tilted her head and stared up at the Teyrn for several moments as another thought occurred to her. "But if the Grey Wardens are expelled from Ferelden, perhaps that is even more unlikely to happen— Alistair will undoubtedly be assigned to a post in Orlais, perhaps Val Royeaux itself." That had some of the desired effect— Loghain was still glaring at her, but she could tell that he was considering her words. She had the feeling that it was as close to a victory as she was liable to get.

"I imagine that the First Warden in the Anderfels would have something to say about me trying to have a hand in Grey Warden assignments."

"I imagine that you are quite good at hearing what you need to, and ignoring what you—" Both hands flew to her mouth and covered it, and she stared at the Teyrn with wide eyes as she realised what she'd said.

She considered herself extremely lucky when all he did was dismiss her.

"So your King believes that he will be there to take down this Archdemon," the emotions in Sten's voice were difficult to pin down from his voice alone, but Lorelei knew that trying to see his face was a waste of effort— what wasn't covered by a large helmet would likely be equally unreadable, so she focussed instead on the twisting, bubbling feeling of the Taint, stirring in her blood— a response to the approaching horde. "You do not trust him, then, to allow the Grey Wardens to serve their purpose." Lorelei shook her head. "He is intent on dooming his own country?"

"I do not believe him to be intent on it," she answered calmly, "Just— too focussed on personal glory to prevent himself."

"Such talk would not be permitted about Qunari leaders," Sten said coolly, "Then again, it would not be justified, either."

"Such talk is not permitted in Ferelden, either, so it is best that we not continue."

"As you wish," she knew without looking— only because she knew the big man's mannerisms— that Sten had inclined his head as he'd answered. "Idle talk serves no purpose other than to distract us from ours."

She could feel the horde, and then the Archdemon— like a humming in her blood— and she shifted and resisted the urge to look at Sten to see if he did the same.

She did not declare their approach or their intent. Every Grey Warden could feel what she felt— she assumed that her own experience was slightly different, but it was not something that they discussed often or freely, even amongst themselves.

Perhaps it was a mistake for her to assume that her experience was like that of everyone else— it had been, when she'd assumed that she dreamt just like other mages— but before she could reflect much on the subject, the sensation changed; it was like being carried on a putrid black wave and she had enough time to pull in a sharp, pained breath, and then the battle had begun, and there was no time for idle thoughts.

The darkspawn were few, and so were easily dispatched as Lorelei lead her group around and the group of soldiers making up the force between front line and southern flank, into the woods and back, circling towards the old fort and one of its two remaining towers. It had been battered by time but the locals had done their best, cutting away the overgrowth and making several repairs; the Dwarven engineer had pointed out where the newer stone stood out against the old, here and there.

"This is not what we discussed." The words seemed to bounce around inside the templar's helmet before they reached her, giving his voice a slight echo. Lorelei shared a glance with Sten, and they both motioned for their Chantry-mandated escort to press on. "Is there a reason we are deviating from the plan, mage?" Lorelei allowed herself the brief luxury of annoyance until she saw Kallian's face— she moved her head slowly from one side to the other in a voiceless request for silence and inaction. She had no doubt that the knife-fighter was familiar with the tone, if not the address, and her lips were already beginning to pull back into an angry snarl.

"I am aware of no discussion in which I detailed any plans to you," she said lightly, sweeping her eyes over their surroundings before nodding at Sten— he put a large hand on the templar's shoulder as Lorelei took the tiniest step into the Fade. She came back to a stiff-backed templar and shook her head— the darkspawn were near, but not converging on them just yet.

"I was told—"

"Whatever you were told," she said firmly, "You are here only because I was willing to suffer your presence. Make no mistake, ser: You are not in command. This is a Blight, and my job is to end it, with or without the Chantry's approval. And I am more correctly addressed as Warden." Kallian was crouched already, daggers in her hands. She waited until the templar turned away from her before she shook her head. Kallian relaxed, but only slightly, and Lorelei could almost feel Sten's disapproval.

They had agreed to the templar guard only barely. Cailan, unwavering in his belief in the honour of the Grey Wardens, could see no harm in it and so had cheerfully declared the templar escort of all Grey Warden mages to be a fair compromise between Grey Wardens and Chantry. Theron had just about looked like he could have— just as cheerfully— wrung Cailan's royal neck, and the taciturn archer had attached Kallian to her party as a fail-safe: if the templar threatened Lorelei or her objective, he was to be neutralized quickly and quietly.

Lorelei had accepted this with great reluctance; murder had never sit well with her, but even Duncan had asserted, when pressed, that the Blight took precedence over everything: if possible, the templar was to be an ally, but if he stopped her from doing what she had to, he was no less her enemy than the darkspawn. Kallian had killed templars before— their focus had been off her, of course, but she had rightly pointed out that Lorelei's own templar escort was similarly likely to focus on the little Elf girl last, should a confrontation erupt. Templars always neutralized the mage first, and then generally archers and warriors— and Kallian was none of those things. This templar would have to take Lorelei and Sten down and get himself caught in one of Kallian's traps or bombs or snares before he realised that he'd made a fatal mistake. Then, of course, Sten and Lorelei would probably be dead, so it was best not to dwell on that scenario.

"Where are we going?" The templar said finally, and Sten snorted in disgust before indicating the tower ahead and taking the lead. "I thought we would be battling darkspawn—"

"Don't be in such a rush, Ser Knight," Kallian said dryly, "There will be darkspawn. Don't get your small pants in a bunch." The templar— Lorelei had promised to learn his name, but only after she knew whether she'd have to kill him— snorted, stiffened, and shook his shield into place.

They were feet from the tower's entrance when the roar of battle went up, signalling the official engagement of the darkspawn with the front lines— and when they stepped inside, a shadow pulled away from the wall and approached them, pausing to pull a torch out of its place on the wall.

"Well met, Sister," Riordan said smoothly, nodding to each of them in turn, "Brother, the fair Kallian, and—" he paused at the templar guard, "And to you as well, good Ser."

"You're supposed to be on the north wall," Lorelei could almost picture the templar's face as confusion pushed his mouth and eyebrows towards his nose. There was a surge, then, and Riordan grimaced and staggered along with her and Sten. "What? What is it?"

"Didn't you just say that you wanted to fight darkspawn?" Kallian, having fought alongside Grey Wardens long enough to know what they looked like when they reacted to the pull of the Taint, had already positioned herself inside the tower and behind the templar as he stood in the doorway, gaping at them like a metal fish. "You're getting your wish." She gestured towards the outside, and he seemed to recover himself as he turned, lifting his shield in time to deflect a blow as the grunting, gurgling, clicking creatures pulled themselves from the dirt and flung their twisted bodies towards their targets.

Kallian shouted and threw a tiny glass bottle over the templar's head in a beautiful arc— just as she ducked down with the others to avoid the blast of heat and white-hot flames, Lorelei caught sight of it on a collision course with a genlock's axe.

"It's just a small scouting party," Riordan said, surprising them all with his calm, "But we must hurry." Lorelei nodded, still blinking sparks out of her eyes, and followed Sten as he sprinted up the stairs.

She barely registered Kallian, Riordan and Ser Whatever following.

"Remember what was decided, Lorelei: should we manage to bring down the Archdemon," Riordan spoke slowly, raising both eyebrows in surprise when the templar started, "I am first in line to take the final blow." Lorelei frowned; they had discussed it during the Ferelden-Warden-plus-Riordan-only planning session, and she was disappointed— not surprised— that Riordan was still insisting on this. "No arguments," he told her gently, but firmly "I am senior."

"And yet it is likely that I will be going to my Calling before you," Lorelei had made this argument before, and Riordan shrugged it off, much as Duncan had done. The final blow was supposed to be Duncan's— but the Warden-Commander had been forced to give up his plan and be part of the King's escort. Perhaps this was a bit of retribution, of a sort, denying Lorelei what she had caused to be denied to him.

"I do not think your situation is as dire as you believe," Kallian made a remark under her breath, and Riordan laughed, "Your loyalty is to your credit, but there is no great battle here. I am to be first in line, and you shall have to accept that your lovely leader here will live to see another dawn."

"What does that mean?"

"Perhaps you will see, soon enough," Riordan gestured, and the templar turned, grunting as another small group of darkspawn charged up the stairs at them. Kallian made a face and threw several more flasks, and then they were running again, up the stairs until they ended and the tower opened up to the sky. It was day, but the sky was full of dark clouds and thunder. When Lorelei had asked, the senior wardens had described the phenomenon as a "Blightstorm". If they failed to stop it, it would spread, and the whole of Thedas could potentially be swallowed up, robbed of the sun in the sky while they were robbed of life on land.

Lorelei stepped close to the wall and peeked over, rising up on her toes to see clearly over the stone. The sounds of fighting were muffled by the distance and the sound of thunder, and above it all, the dark shape of a dragon dropping down from the clouds and howling in a rallying cry. The darkspawn echoed it and the dull roar rose up to the tower.

"It is time," Riordan said darkly, and she nodded as her companions took defensive positions by the stairs, leaving the three Grey Wardens between them and the archdemon.

Lorelei took a deep breath and contemplated the dragon, its twisted form throwing shadow and fiery breath down upon the army. It seemed to hover in the sky, its head swinging about, and for a terrible moment, Lorelei was absolutely sure that the Archdemon was staring directly at her. Her heart felt like it had stopped in her chest, and the Taint raged within her. There was a brief sensation of senseless rage, and then her heart went from still to racing, and she pulled air into her lungs with a ragged, desperate breath. She closed her eyes, stepped into the Fade, and pulled on the Taint, harder than she'd ever pulled before.

She felt like she was screaming, only to have all the sound ripped away by a powerful wind, and it took a huge amount of effort to keep screaming until something answered. The Archdemon's response was a series of chaotic notes, played on the resonance of the Taint in her blood. It reminded her again of lyrium, and the odd humming sensation that she felt whenever she'd tasted it in a potion— though to a degree so much the greater that it would probably take complete immersion in pure lyrium to replicate.

It felt like an eternity before she opened her eyes and met the dark, astonished eyes of Riordan— and then the wide eyes of her other companions. She wrenched her head back to the horizon, staring up as she heard the dragon scream, a high-pitched keening that sounded much closer than it should have.

The Archdemon circled the tower before falling into a dive— the movement that had enough fluidity and grace to be called beautiful, but for the twisted creature executing it. As he dived, the Taint surged within her, and she realised that instead of the disconnected, rage-filled call to which she was accustomed, she heard what was almost a word— a name— sung in blood and lyrium.

Urthemiel!

Before she could think about the word's significance, she and Riordan were fleeing backward as the dragon descended, arms flailing as she threw herself into several leaps to avoid being crushed beneath its claws. Her last effort left her momentarily stunned as she twisted up and around on her back and stared into the large, luminous eyes of the enemy of all Grey Wardens— of all life. For an instant, Lorelei found the Archdemon to be awfully, devastatingly beautiful.

The dragon opened its massive jaws and screamed, spewing Tainted spittle— but not fire, she noted absently— and a hard, armoured hand closed around her shoulder and dragged her to her feet and then shoved her back.

Sten and Riordan stood together, and once she'd recovered, Lorelei steadied herself and joined them. She didn't have to look into the Fade to know that the darkspawn had heard the Archdemon's call and were converging on their location. Despite the armies surrounding them, they were essentially alone: three Wardens standing against a terrible evil.

Lorelei wondered if it hadn't ended up as Flemeth had planned, after all.

Sten howled, and the Archdemon swung its head to the side, tail knocking stone from the tower's wall as it swished back and forth— and then it charged in Lorelei's direction, knocking barricades and soldiers aside like pebbles. Lorelei flung herself flat, staring with wide eyes as a massive claw landed inches from her face. She twisted onto her back and flung a spell up into one of the few places where the dragon's hide was thinner and more sensitive: between the back legs and at the base of the tail, home of the reproductive organs. She noted, with the barest trace of humour, that despite all they'd been told about the Old Gods, the Archdemon did not actually appear to be male.

With a shriek, the Archdemon stomped, jumped, and lifted into the air, the wind from its wings battering her as hard as real blows would have. Lorelei pulled more power from the Taint and crawled, rolled, scrambled to her knees behind another barricade, where a stone-faced dwarf was preparing to fire a ballista. She flung her gaze from one end of the roof-top to the other— Sten and Kallian were huddled close together, both with bruises darkening almost all exposed skin. The swearing dwarf's companions had been swept off the roof to their deaths, along with the templar and their bombs and ballistae; Lorelei wondered at the fact that the power of the blast hadn't taken the tower right out from under them when it hit the ground.

She hoped that it had at least slowed the waves of darkspawn invading the tower from below, seeking to be closer to their Tainted God and to destroy the most annoying of its enemies.

She did not see Riordan, and so she crept out from cover, motioning to Sten, who grimaced and did likewise. The Archdemon was circling above them, performing several acrobatic movements that puzzled her until she saw the glint of a blade— and then the outline of a man, clinging to the back of the dragon and climbing towards the base of its neck.

"Holy Andraste, is that—" Kallian fell silent, unable to speak the words.

The form slipped, the blade flashed, and then a rip appeared near the joint of the wing and back, splitting open as Riordan was dragged downward. Lorelei's breath caught in her throat— there were no bones in the path of his sword. The sky lit up, throwing dragon and man into sharp relief as the latter finally ran out of wing and the former fell into a desperate spiral.

Sten moved quickly, dropping his sword to fling first Lorelei, then Kallian, out of the path of the rapidly returning Archdemon. He managed to close his hands around his sword once more before the dragon impacted— then he was thrown violently against the small part of wall remaining on the tower. Lorelei waited for him to stir, to rise to his feet and demand that he be the one to slay the downed dragon, but he did not. Kallian's hand was balled into a fist and pressed to her lips, bright eyes wide.

Lorelei would not believe that the giant was dead until she'd confirmed it for herself, so she rose to her knees and listened to the stirring in her blood that made her a Warden, to the thrum of the Taint shared between them. The healing spell was spinning off her fingers before she could put words to her discovery. Her relief at Sten's survival was short lived; she did not have the time or the strength to heal him more than the barest amount, and without intervention, he would be as dead as Riordan.

The Archdemon screamed, not only alive but very, very angry— and Lorelei was the only Warden left to face it.

"Your majesty—"

"Don't 'your majesty' me!" The King's face was red and blotchy with rage and streaked, as was his formerly shiny golden armour, with mud and blood and several substances far less appealing. Lorelei had to admit that even if he hadn't been indulging in a fit of pique more suited to a spoiled child, he would not have seemed deserving of the description of 'majestic'. That, of course, was not the reason for his ire. "You tricked me! You and Duncan and— it was Loghain's idea, wasn't it?" It had, in truth, been Leliana's idea, but Lorelei was rightly preoccupied with the shrieking, Maker-forsaken darkspawn dragon and did not consider this discussion to be the best use of her time.

"Forgive me, your majesty, but this really isn't the ti—"

"You disobeyed a direct order from your King!" Cailan actually stomped his foot, and the rather unimposing mage felt her jaw drop open in shock. "This is treason!" She blinked. Surely this wasn't truly happening; she was stuck in some bizarre, horrible dream sequence in which the King of Ferelden shouted and pouted while standing in front of a writhing Archdemon. King Cailan's sword— mysteriously found by his father in the Deep Roads, if the tale was to be believed— glowed bright blue along the runes, flaring as if in response to the Archdemon. She noted that, despite clear signs that Cailan had engaged the enemy, the blade was clear of blood.

"This is a Blight, your majesty," she spoke through her teeth, and the King's eyes brightened with an almost fanatical light. It inspired a sharp spike of fear from somewhere around her middle. "That must more than just our first priority, but right now— our only one."

"Well, it all ends here," the King said, sweeping his arm— and blade— out in a grand gesture. "I will end it, just as my father would have— despite your best efforts— and then the Wardens will leave Ferelden, this time permanently." It was exactly what she had wanted to prevent— the King intended to put his quest for glory above everything, even the fate of Thedas. Before she could even formulate a response, Cailan shifted into stance and then threw himself forward into a full charge, aimed directly at the Archdemon's exposed flank.

As the blade bit into flesh, the dragon howled and Lorelei staggered, hit by a wave of pain through the Taint. He thrust the blade into the dragon again— and then withdrew it, readying himself to strike at the Archdemon's heart. Lorelei's vision blurred, and then sharpened— too late she noticed the movement, too late, she cried out a warning— too late, Cailan finally tried to heed her and dodge the massive foot that rose up, then came crashing down, sending the glowing blade skittering across the stone.

The King lay pinned flat, arms flung wide and head tilted all the way back so that there was a clear view of his face. It was white, his eyes wide and blue and sightless, blood trickling out of his mouth and spreading in a circle beneath him. When the Archdemon lifted its foot, it lifted the King with it— he had been impaled through the chest on a massive claw— and the terrible tableau held for just a moment before the body of Cailan Theirin slipped off and hit the stones again with a wet sound.

Lorelei looked away, and heard the sound of someone being violently ill behind her. She looked back at the sound of metal scraping on stone, just in time to see the dragon fling the King's body over the side of the tower, like a dog would fling dirt behind him as he dug. The wounds that Cailan had inflicted were far from minor; she knew, even as the Archdemon did, that they would eventually prove to be fatal, even for a creature such as this.

Maric's eerie blade lay near her feet, and the Archdemon watched her, as if challenging her resolve. Sten's blade had gone over; even if it hadn't, she didn't think she'd have the strength to lift it, let alone wield it. She reached for it, and the runes flared almost white, and she felt it reject the Taint— reject her, even, as its wielder. She grit her teeth against the pain as she closed her fingers around the handle. It burned, and she focussed what was left of her magic into the effort, remembering what Neria had shown her only days before. To her surprise, the blade hummed, as if in acceptance. She did not have time to contemplate the significance of that, so she skirted around the dragon, staying on its wounded side— and out of reach of its claws. The blade was surprisingly light, for all it seemed to drive away the Taint, even that which resided in her blood. Her whole body seemed to grow heavy, as if refusing to complete this final duty. She allowed herself the briefest of moments to consider Duncan, and Riordan, and Sten— lying broken and probably dying a little ways off— of Kallian and Theron and Warren and the rest, even Ser Nameless-Templar-Wearing-A-Bucket. If she could get enough momentum, she could carry that through to the blow, and perhaps drive the tip of the sword deep enough to penetrate the dragon's skull— especially if she hit the exact right spot at its base.

If she succeeded, she would die. If she failed, she rather imagined that the Archdemon would enjoy destroying her body and sending the pieces flying off the heavily damaged tower.

With that in mind, she took a deep breath, lifted the sword over her head— gripped with two hands, point forward— and charged, counting the steps and calculating the distance as she went. She imagined that almost any of the others would have executed this move with more grace, but her body seemed to respond well enough, and that was more than she could have rightfully expected.

As she leapt into the final blow, driving the sword downward, she thought— with an oddly intense regret— of Alistair.

At first, she wondered if it wasn't a trick of tired eyes and numb fingers as the runes on the sword flared even brighter and the hilt grew warm against her palms and fingers. The feeling of being rejected grew stronger and stronger, but when she tried to release the sword, she found that her hands would not release their grip. She twisted around, still held fast to King Maric's mysterious Taint-repelling sword, casting her eyes about for what was left of her companions. Kallian stared at her with wide, terrified eyes, and she looked away, towards where Sten had fallen. The giant had pulled himself up onto his side, and his face was screwed up, lips moving and throat trembling as he yelled.

Lorelei couldn't hear him— couldn't hear anything, not even the sounds of battle below them. For a moment, she thought that she saw a pair of yellow eyes watching her from the shadows, but she blinked, and they were gone. She turned back to her hands, bound as surely as if she were manacled, and saw nothing but white. She blinked, squinted, closed her eyes, and the white remained. It washed over her, and it was like being burned from the inside— it was pain beyond what she could even describe as pain. She felt more than simply her death in it, and she wondered if this is what Riordan and Duncan had meant when they'd said that the souls of both Archdemon and Grey Warden were annihilated at the end of a Blight.

In death, sacrifice— and yet it felt oddly exhilarating, like a final triumph. No one had ever expected anything of her, and here she was, ending the Fifth Blight.

She thought of Alistair, and she felt a profound, painful sadness at the thought of never seeing him again, never seeing what he would become when he took ownership of himself. She hoped that what was left of the Order would be enough to pull him through. That the King had arrived without Duncan meant that the Warden-Commander— and for Alistair, a surrogate-father of sorts— had died in battle, and here she was, the woman with whom he was— quite ridiculously— infatuated, about to be completely unmade.

She wondered what would be left of her body.

The pain and light seemed to converge somewhere within her, expand, and then— nothing was left save for a soft, faraway melody that was hauntingly familiar. The light picked her up and flung her backward as if she was a dry leaf on a hot, harsh summer wind. A wave of sound, just barely behind the shockwave of light and heat, rushed over her as she tumbled end over end. There was a feeling of being struck by lightning, and then— nothing.

Lorelei was in the Fade. She knew this because of the suddenness with which she became aware: there was no protest from her eyes as she opened them, nor form her body as she regained her feet. The stone beneath her bare feet— bare feet!— didn't feel hard or rough. It was oddly still, and she had the feeling of being suspended in space, despite what her eyes told her: she was standing where she had fallen, near a rare intact section of the wall separating her from a long drop. Even standing at the edge, she could see nothing beyond the round disc of stone. She turned, and found the dragon exactly where she expected it— only instead of the dead, twisted dragon that she expected, she found a creature of surprising beauty that was very much alive.

It rose, as if from a nap, and towered above her, wings snapping into place and obscuring any view that Lorelei might have had of what lay beyond it. Lorelei tipped her head back as far as she could to meet the eyes of the creature, and realised that they were bright, piercing gold.

"...Flemeth?" The dragon snorted, then let out a series of short sounds that was suspiciously reminiscent of laughter. The wings swept down and wrapped around the dragon's body like a sort of self-hug, and Lorelei turned her head away the powerful blast of air that stung her skin, but did not move her from her spot. When she turned back, the dragon was gone, leaving a woman in its place, with white hair that was swept back and tied in place like a set of horns. This was not her guise as a frail old woman, but Lorelei knew it to be the same creature. She shifted in place and found herself rubbing her arms, even though she knew that the chill was only in her mind, and perhaps in her blood.

"Well, well," Flemeth smiled, and Lorelei stepped back before she could stop herself; the old woman who was more than an old woman chuckled. "You are such a skittish little thing, aren't you? You have such potential, and yet— you constantly shy away from your own power, and the knowledge that would enhance it."

"I've no desire for power, and knowledge is of little use if I go and get myself killed before I can use it." She was somewhat proud of her answer, but Flemeth snorted, as if she had failed to live up to expectations. It wasn't exactly a new thing for Lorelei, so her best efforts not to react visibly met with some success.

"No desire for power?" Flemeth arched an eyebrow, and Lorelei stuffed her irritation down, until she was standing on it. "Are you truly so quick to refuse what is offered?"

"If I've no notion of the price, yes." That answer seemed to regain some ground with the creature that called herself Flemeth— if not quite all of what she'd lost.

"But you can't always know the price beforehand," Flemeth chided, and Lorelei winced, remembering some of the choices that she'd made that were sure to have far-reaching consequences. "Ah," the old woman nodded, as if agreeing with her thoughts, "So you do not have a mind of mush. That is fortunate."

"Something odd happened when I killed the Archdemon," she said finally.

"Something odd? Have you killed so many Archdemons that you know what is odd and what is to be expected?" Lorelei flinched, and Flemeth laughed again. "But you are correct. My daughter has succeeded in her task, and will soon return to me, dutiful girl that she is." There was something in the way she said it that made her immediately suspicious, and without thinking, she pushed, and there was a flash— and an image of Morrigan, spreading her arms wide as light washed over her and settled in her belly. Lorelei blinked when the image disappeared, cut away with some force. There was no mistaking that she had seen only as much as Flemeth wanted her to see; Lorelei was not possessed of quite enough arrogance to believe that she was capable of seeing into the ancient being's thoughts unless she willed it so. That she had seen anything at all was enough to raise the hairs on the back of her neck; the Chantry taught that the only way to see into one's thoughts was through blood magic.

"The Archdemon—"

"Urthemiel," Flemeth corrected, with an odd note of fondness on her voice, and Lorelei started, recognising the word immediately. "Free of the Taint, Archdemon no more, Urthemiel— the Old Tevinter God of Beauty, destined to be reborn as a mortal man." She felt her eyes narrow, and the old woman's lips parted in a feral, fierce grin. "Or— perhaps a mortal woman. We shall have to see."

"How—" Flemeth dismissed her half-formed question with a wave of her hand.

"I must admit, a part of me was hoping that it would be the Prince— so like his father— but it will do, I think. Such lovely eyes! Perhaps the child will have them." She cackled, then her laughter stopped abruptly and she tilted her head, subjecting Lorelei to a sharp, unblinking examination. "I do hope that you are not quite done, meek little Dreamer— you have surprised me, and that happens so very rarely."

"But I killed the Archdemon— I should be dead." Flemeth laughed again.

"Ah, but you are not so good at doing what you should, are you? You are not unlike Morrigan in that— despite your manners— and I must admit that I would have it no other way." That odd ripple went through her, then, and she knew that she was close to waking. She fought the sensation, feeling that there was something that she needed to ask Flemeth, even if she wouldn't answer. She had barely opened her mouth when the old woman who was also a dragon shushed her abruptly.

"My curiosity is satiated— for now," she said, somehow solemn and laughing at the same time, "Destiny does not wait, little dreamer, and its pull is not something that even you— Dragonslayer or no— can resist."


	14. Birthright

The world returned to her in the form of a few vague impressions with great spaces in between. First, there was a sensation of movement; then, the sound of wheels turning, of stones and dust grinding beneath as if she was being lightly bounced about; then, the flickering movement of shadows beyond her closed eyelids.

Then she was sitting up, sputtering, and there was a shadow upon her, hands pressing her back into a prone position. "Shh," said a very familiar voice, grating despite what she knew to be the speaker's best attempt at "soothing".

"Anders?" She blinked rapidly, trying to clear what felt like a years' worth of sleep-induced blurring from her vision. "What—" Her voice was rough, and the words burned her throat as she forced them out, like wild creatures with claws making a desperate bid to escape a high-walled prison.

"Shh," the blond mage repeated, lips twitching as if they ached to form themselves into their customary smirk but did not quite dare, "You're dead."

" _Wh_ at?" Anders pressed a finger first to his own lips, and then to hers, and she found herself almost smiling— he'd always been particularly attached to the dramatic. She allowed the healer to ease her back into a prone position, and released her breath in a sigh as his magic washed over her.

"Well," he said finally, in the same tone of voice that he used to catalogue minor injuries, "There's no delicate way to say it, but— well, you're dead." Lorelei felt her eyes narrow, and she could make out the small lines around his eyes that indicated amusement, perhaps even repressed laughter. "You dealt the final blow against the Archdemon," he continued, as if he were discussing something benign, like the recipe for a simple burn salve. "So Warren and Teyrn Loghain thought it best to let the Orlesians think you were dead, since that was what they expected."

It seemed to strike her all at once, then, the realisation that she'd done the impossible— killed an Archdemon and lived. She chewed on her lower lip as she contemplated that, knowing that there was _something_ about that, something that she should remember.

"We've been taking turns keeping watch over you, making sure that no one discovers that you're a bit too _lively_ for your own funeral procession."

"Funeral—"

"Oh, don't you know? Of course you don't!" Lorelei rolled her eyes, but she was smiling despite herself. Anders always had been a bit of a card. "You're a hero now, and you're being honoured with a full procession, joined with the King's." He winced, then, and she echoed the expression. Cailan's last moments flashed, unbidden, in her mind, and they were no less painful to recall than they had been to witness first-hand.

"The Senior Wardens—"

"Gone," there was a gentle pressure as his fingertips danced over injuries that she remembered receiving but no longer felt, and he made a satisfied sort of sound. "Once the battle was won, Teyrn Loghain sent them away, along with those poncey mounted soldiers."

"I'm surprised that he let us stay," she mused, and Anders grinned wolfishly.

"He's a hard man, that Teyrn Loghain," he answered gleefully, "Told the lot that they were returning to Orlais, one way or another, but that if they wanted to do it in one piece, they'd best make quick work of it. It was beautiful to behold, actually."

"Who—" she coughed, and Anders sent another wave of magic over her, before he brought a waterskin to her lips and helped her drink. "Who survived? Who died?" Lorelei watched Anders closely, staring straight at his face until he finally met her eyes.

"All of us junior Wardens survived," he grinned then, for a second the irreverent young mage that used to flirt with the girls and charm sweets out of the kitchen, "Even your not-so-friendly giant, though he was a near thing. The little Elf girl, too— she's a tough little thing— and that red-head. I think she was talking about writing a song about you. Maybe she'll call it 'the meek little mage that could'."

"Anders."

"Yeah, yeah. The Dalish lost several hunters and a few of their animals—"

"Halla."

"Yes, those. The Dragon devastated the Chevaliers, almost like it was making a point. A few of the King's men died— Duncan with them, and eventually the King, of course, but you know that. Um, the Chantry lost some templars, but that's no big loss, of course— and some Tranquil, but they're basically dead anyway—"

It happened quickly; by the time she realised what she'd done, Anders's cheek was already red and his fingers were closed firmly around her wrist. She stared at his face without actually seeing it, and he stared back, looking like he couldn't decide between insult and injury.

"I'm sorry," she said finally, and after a few attempts, managed to free her wrist from his grasp. He raised a hand to his face, as if not quite believing that she'd actually hit him.

" _Why_?" She blinked several times, realising from the look on his face and the hurt in his voice that the question was a sincere one. It was a bit of a shock. Anders had a tendency to dismiss criticism unless he truly cared about the speaker; she had never once dreamed that she would ever be one of those people.

"Because dismissing people as worthless because they are Tranquil or Templar is wrong, and I can't just let something like that pass." Anders's expression morphed from one of shock to one of mutiny, and she held up her hands to stop his quick response. "It's hypocritical, Anders. We can't ask them to treat us like people if we won't do the same for them." She felt her eyes beginning to water, and the healer's expression softened, if only by the tiniest amount. "And given what the Tranquil are— what has already been done to them— I won't have anyone compounding that by treating them like trash. Not if I can prevent it." She did not make the point about the templars, who were _also_ abused, raised and twisted into what they are and ordered about until they were too lyrium-addled to be useful. Anders was not _ready_ for that revelation, not just yet.

"I understand," he said finally, and though she wasn't sure that he did— not entirely— she believed that he was at least _trying_ to understand. Lorelei would take progress wherever and whenever she could find it, and this was progress, however minor it was.

She listened carefully as he began to resume his list of the survivors and the fallen. If either or both of them seemed relieved when certain names landed on one list or the other, they each did their best not to comment on it.

* * *

When Warren arrived to relieve Anders, Lorelei was struck by the contrast between them. The healer left the caravan with a bouncy, light-hearted sort of gait, embellished with a wink and a wave as he dropped the flap cut into the heavy tarp closed behind him. Warren's movements were heavy, solid, and solemn, each step falling hard on the wooden slats that formed the floor of the cart. Each creak and jostle was met with an unyielding suspicion, as if the cart were a horse threatening to buck and throw its riders.

"You would make a horrible pirate." The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them, and Lorelei wondered if, while unconscious, she'd been given some of that healing tea that soothed pain and left the patient with a pervasive good mood, sometimes to the point of idiocy. Warren, for his part, arched one dark eyebrow in response— the effect was ruined when one of the waggon's wheels hit a stone and he stumbled, cursed, and glared at the 'floor' as if it had intentionally wronged him.

"You appear to be much improved." His tone was glad, and for a moment, it threw her. It must have shown on her face, for he suddenly scowled at her. "Anders will be insufferable for some time, you know." She blinked, then smiled.

"Anders is always insufferable," she shot back, earning a smile around his eyes, "Though if he's been kept busy healing, he'll have been less so— perhaps you should _thank_ me for the reprieve." Warren inclined his head, and Lorelei felt a pang— of regret, perhaps— as she realised that this light mood would not survive the subjects in desperate need of discussion.

"I know that look," he claimed the seat previously occupied by Anders and leaned forward, dark eyes boring into hers.

"Anders told me who lived and died," she said finally, "I would very much like to know what happened."

Warren was halfway through his reply when shouting drew their attention away. He rose, taking large, slightly wobbly strides to the end of the waggon and stuck his head out the back. Lorelei caught very little of the following exchange; it was enough that she recognized the voice.

"You let _him_ think that I was dead?" Lorelei did not see the expression on his face, limited as she was to a very good view of his heavily armoured backside. "I want to see him, Warren." The heavy sigh, she heard, and she could easily imagine the face that went with it.

With a few grunts and squeaking protests— from armour, but also from the men wearing it— Warren stumbled back into the tent, pulling a very put-out Alistair along with him. Lorelei straightened, forgetting all at once that she'd been instructed to lie still and blinking back tears as her vision swayed and blurred.

"Maker's _breath_ ," Alistair said; his voice was rough with emotion as he stared at her, looking almost afraid to even blink, lest what he saw prove to be unreal. "You're— _you're alive_!"

Then he was in motion, and the space that separated them was suddenly gone, along with her breath as he embraced her tightly enough to chase the air right out of her and probably gift her with a whole set of new bruises for Anders to heal. Lorelei might have hugged him back, had her arms not been painfully pinned to her sides. Something small and wet hit the space between her neck and shoulder, and it took several moments before she realised that her comrade-in-arms was weeping, breaths coming in hitched, desperate gasps. She glanced over at Warren, who was looking away as if to grant some measure of privacy.

When Alistair pulled away, she did her best not to gasp her relief, drawing air— wonderful, beautiful air— into her lungs in slow, quiet pulls. He put one hand on either side of her face and stared, as if commiting each and every detail to memory.

"You _are_ real," he breathed, though she couldn't tell if he was stating a fact or making a wish. "You are really alive. I thought—" He shifted, and his gauntlet pulled at her hair, making her wince. He withdrew all at once, mortified, settling into the seat vacated by Warren with a thud. "I've hurt you— _Maker_ , I'm so sorry, I—"

"It's fine," she said at last, glancing briefly over her shoulder at Warren, who winced, presumably at her expression. "I'm fine, Alistair." She focussed on the man who had lost half-brother and father-figure both, and had thought he had lost her as well— the object of an infatuation that he hadn't had the time to properly shake. She knew why he'd been kept out of the loop, but still, it seemed unforgiveably cruel, and she didn't think she'd have been able to carry through with the decision, had she been in Warren's place— or Teyrn Loghain's, or Anders's. He was still staring at her, as if unable to believe that she was real, and not a dream or illusion. She pulled her legs toward her and winced as her hand landed on a still-forming bruise on her thigh. Alistair had removed his gauntlets and was wiping his face with the backs of his hands.

"How are you— Duncan," he swallowed, then forced himself to continue, "Duncan and Riordan told us that whoever dealt the final blow to the Archdemon would die."

"I think that is what normally happens, yes," she admitted, "I do not fully understand the things at play, but somehow I have survived." She tried not to flinch away from Alistair's naked admiration, laid out in detail across his face, thinking of her brief meeting with Flemeth. She frowned, then, realising that she felt like she'd only just awakened from that dream, and yet it had clearly been days, maybe weeks since she'd lost consciousness. "Is Morrigan still about?" Alistair made a face.

"She was gone by the time we found you," Warren supplied, "Does she have something to do with all of this?" Alistair glared at the him, but the former Captain merely offered a thin smile and spread hands.

"Perhaps," Lorelei said softly, drawing the men's attention away from each other. "I dreamt of Flemeth."

"That sounds about right," Alistair declared, clearly unhappy, "Morrigan and Jowan were sneaking around, the night before the battle, but he wouldn't tell us anything— even after." His eyes narrowed as they found their way back to Warren, "Though I guess he wasn't the only one being _sneaky_."

"We had to keep the Orlesians from finding out," Warren explained.

"I can keep a secret!" The former Chantry-initiate said hotly, "You let me— I thought I'd lost everything in that battle! Cailan and _Duncan_ and—" Alistair drew in a sharp breath as he fell short of completing his declaration; Warren did it for him.

"And Lorelei," His voice was flat and unyielding, "I'm sorry, Alistair, but the Orlesian Wardens were watching us, and you especially. You would have given it away, despite your best efforts."

"I wouldn't—"

"You wear your heart on your face, Alistair," Lorelei could not bring her voice above a whisper, but both men heard her all the same. Alistair stared at her, clearly stricken— and proving her point far more convincingly than she could have voiced it, even if she'd had all the supposed eloquence of the Maker's Bride herself. "Warren's not saying that you would have let it slip intentionally, only that any attempt that you made to disguise your emotions would have been transparent, especially under close scrutiny." She tried to smile, "That's usually a _good_ thing, by the way— not being an expert liar. I'm rather horrid at it myself."

"But why keep it secret for so long?" Alistair pushed, "Teyrn Loghain forced the Orlesians to leave within days— and we're nearly to Denerim!" Lorelei heard the hiss as she pulled in a sharp breath, air whistling past her teeth. Warren wobbled with the waggon as it made another jump, and Alistair sighed and gave up his seat, which the dark-eyed soldier took gratefully. The not-templar settled on the floor with some obvious discomfort, but made no complaints. In fact, he made no sound at all, which, combined with his refusal to remove his gaze from her— or even blink, as if she would disappear— made Lorelei a little uncomfortable. Well, a _lot_ uncomfortable.

"I think it's time that I heard everything," she said finally, rubbing her temples with the tips of her fingers, "And then I believe I am due for a very long, very private chat with Warden Jowan."

* * *

"Morrigan said that no one had to die," Jowan said finally, and Lorelei reached out to give him an awkward pat on the shoulder. "I thought that I was doing something good— finally." The last word was whispered, and Lorelei had to take a shaky breath before she could trust herself to speak.

"There is no doubt in my mind that your intentions were good," she said softly, and Jowan snorted.

"But they always _are_ , aren't they?" He stared at his hands as he spoke, still studying scars that were no longer there— scars that it had taken at least as much pain to heal as they had to receive. Lorelei could not blame him for the bitter note in his voice, or the tired look in his eyes when he raised them back up to hers. "Here I am _again_ , making a mess of things. Does it even matter that I mean well?"

"It matters to _me_ ," she answered, and Jowan stared at her in disbelief, then dropped his head into his hands. "Jowan, Morrigan had her purpose before she even joined us. I have no doubt in my mind that she had a plan that she would have executed with or without you. That she appealed to you in the way that she did instead of simply seducing you speaks to your character."

"I'm—" Jowan studied her, tilting his head first one way and then the other, and then he laughed. "I was about to say that I was sorry, you know, but I just realised that I'm not." Lorelei frowned at him, confused. "I know that it could be some horrible thing that we've done, and that maybe letting Morrigan have her Old God Baby or whatever it ends up being is bad, but—" He shrugged. "Maybe it was worth it."

"Worth it?" She felt her brows knit together as she stared at him, "Not that I'm unhappy to be alive, Jowan, but how would that be worth it? There will be no telling what the price of your bargain is— probably for years."

" _You_ 're alive," Jowan said, and rolled his eyes when this didn't lessen her confusion in the slightest. "I'm glad that you're alive, whatever the cost turns out to be."

"I— thank you, Jowan, but I'm hardly—"

"If you tell me that you're not important," Jowan leaned in close, and Lorelei felt her eyes widen and jaw slacken in surprise as the apostate-turned-Grey-Warden actually managed to look threatening. She'd thought Jowan almost as incompetent at that pursuit as she was. "If you say that, I— well, I don't know what I'll _do_ , to be honest, but I'll be very upset." He leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest. "You're _special_ , okay? I'm not the only one who thinks so, so even if my judgement is suspect, I'm not wrong about this. I'm glad you're alive. I would done a lot worse than sleep with Morrigan to make that happen."

"You _slept with_ _Morrigan_?" Jowan started as Alistair spoke, and Lorelei noted that he looked slightly green around the face. "Holy Maker! I'm never going to be able to get that image out of my head." He shook it, as if trying to do just that, and Lorelei covered her mouth with her hand as a tiny bubble of laughter escaped.

"I brought you some food," Alistair said, still staring at Jowan, "And I was going to eat with you, but I've lost my appetite— and let me tell you, when a Grey Warden loses their appetite it's no small thing."

"So you don't want that cheese, then?" Jowan reached out as if to snatch the item off the tray, and Alistair pulled back.

"It's for Lorelei."

"Lorelei hates cheese." Alistair stared at her, clearly scandalised.

"You can't hate cheese! It's _cheese_."

"I don't _hate_ it, but I don't really _eat_ it, either," Lorelei admitted, and Alistair watched Jowan through narrowed eyes before his gaze fell back to the platter. "You're free to fight over it."

"I'm bigger than you." Alistair told Jowan, staking his claim.

"But you _said_ you weren't—"

"It's _cheese_ ," the bastard prince said, as if that explained everything, "All bets are off if it's cheese." Jowan laughed, and Lorelei couldn't help but notice that even Alistair smiled as the mage threw his hands up in surrender, then took his leave with a shallow bow. Alistair set the tray down and sat beside her, and then, after several dramatic glances around them, snatched the cheese— her portion as well as his— off the platter and ate it with obvious relish.

Despite his claim to having lost his appetite, the heaps of food on the platter were thoroughly demolished by the time the two of them were through with it.

* * *

"And then the Teyrn said—"

"Warden," Anders straightened, staring straight at Lorelei with a wide-eyed expression that she herself had worn many times, especially when dealing with the man in question, who now met her eyes over the healer's shoulder, one eyebrow and one corner of his mouth raised in amusement.

"Your grace," Lorelei supplied, somewhat surprised at how calm she felt as she watched Anders compose himself, then turn and politely acknowledge the Teyrn.

"We have arrived in Denerim," he said finally, "I have arranged for all of you to be escorted to your compound in the city, along with your— supplies."

"I understand that we have you to thank for securing them," Loghain inclined his head, just slightly, in acknowledgement. "Allow me to thank you personally."

"It was nothing, Warden," there was a flash of something in his eyes, and her mind sluggishly identified that _something_ as— a sort of pleasure, not quite amusement and not quite joy. As Anders had been quite happy to part with an embellished version of the story, Lorelei figured that it probably had something to do with one-upping Orlesians, even if they were Grey Wardens.

"It was vital," she said slowly, "I can only hope that it will not cause you or the Queen undue trouble."

" _Trouble_ appears to follow us both, Warden," Loghain's voice was rich with wry humour, "And when it does not find us, _we_ find _it_." The tall man seemed to fling his gaze around the waggon that had, more or less, been Lorelei's home for the few days since she awakened, and several weeks before that. "If you will excuse me, I must report to the palace."

"Please give our best wishes— and our sincerest condolences— to the Queen," Lorelei found that she meant the statement in earnest, having heard a great deal about the Queen, including several rumours that brought out a sympathy that had surprised a few of her fellow Wardens.

Loghain's response was lost as he pulled his head out of the tent and began barking orders to his men, voice soon muffled by an increasing amount of distance.

"So how did you know," Anders said slowly, rubbing his hands together, "That allying with Loghain would work out? If Cailan and Duncan had lived, or if he hadn't taken to you, or if the Dwarves and Elves and Mages hadn't been—"

"Warren once accused me of having Andraste's own luck," Lorelei said carefully, watching as the blond mage's eyes lit up with interest, "I am beginning to think that he had the right of it."

"Well," Anders drawled, "That, and Warren is surprisingly crafty, for a meat-headed soldier. He and Loghain put their heads together and let me tell you," he whistled, "I wouldn't want to have either of them as an enemy, but together they are _really_ , really _scary_." He tilted his head, eyes narrowing as he studied her— she caught herself wondering if she had an odd rash or something on her face. "You're not to be sneezed at, either. What is it that you have on that old bugger, anyway?"

"Who?"

"Irving," Anders drew the name out, as if trying to coat his tongue with it. _Irrrrvinnnng_. "He wouldn't have let me go, not for you, not unless you had something _big_. Like, secret trysts in the supply closet with Greagoir and half a dozen Tranquil big." Lorelei made a face.

"Ew, Anders." He spread his hands almost as wide as his grin, which was completely devoid of any sort of apology. " _Ew_."

"I'm here _all week_!" Lorelei groaned, then buried her head in her hands when he added, "And so is Oghren! And Faren! We have plans to start a club and everything."

"How about you finish telling me how Loghain managed to run off the Chevaliers and Grey Wardens both without letting them take anything from the Archdemon's corpse?" Lorelei didn't think it was even possible for Anders's grin to grow wider, and he added a dramatic bow before he began the tale again, interrupted only by the occassional cheer as the covered waggons (most of them carrying bones, skin, sinew, blood and— apparently— the fully intact _head_ of the tainted dragon-god) Urthemiel— made their way through the streets of Denerim, with the all-but abandoned Grey Warden Compound as their destination.

By the time they arrived, Anders had completed the story, with time to go over his favourite parts— to the point of jumping up and acting them out— and Lorelei had laughed herself to tears more than once.

* * *

"Ah, Warden—" The Queen winced as her Elven lady-in-waiting struggled to help her into a chair, and Lorelei was across the room before she caught herself.

"May I offer my assistance, your Majesty?"

"I— yes, thank you, Warden," she said finally, voice a mix of surprise, pain and the sort of wariness that triggered an immediate feeling of sympathy, and perhaps sorrow. This was a woman who was not accustomed to being offered favours that did not come with a steep price. Lorelei glanced briefly at the Elven servant, and the woman stared back, offering a brief nod of understanding before they worked together to shift the heavily pregnant Queen into a comfortable position into the wide, padded chair. It looked like a recent aquisition— Lorelei noted that the other chairs in the sitting room were straight-backed and fine, but not particularly plush.

Lorelei did not allow her hands to linger on the Queen— when she was satisfied that she was safely and comfortably seated, she backed away and sketched a deep bow as if she'd only just entered the room. When she straightened, she noticed that Alistair had followed her lead, and that some of the Queen's suspicion had faded, replaced with a small smile.

"Thank you for seeing us, your Majesty," she said softly, sitting when the Queen indicated one of her very fine, straight-backed chairs. Alistair settled in the chair beside her, quiet and nervous.

"You are— Alistair, are you not?" The Queen was wearing a little frown as she examined the almost-templar from head to toe, and he blushed fiercely under her scrutiny. Lorelei realised that if she had been aware of his resemblance to Cailan, the Queen— the man's own widow— had surely noticed.

"I— ah, yes, your Majesty." He shifted in his chair, "Was I not supposed to be here? I was told—"

"I did request your presence," the Queen admitted, the edges of her mouth quirking slightly upwards. Perhaps she was seeing that Cailan's bastard half-brother was as different in personality as he was similar in looks. Lorelei had only been in her presence for a few moments, but she was getting the impression that the woman missed very little— much like her father.

"Well, uh, I— ah— good," Alistair squirmed, and Lorelei reached out and pressed the tips of her fingers into his shoulder, just enough that he glanced in her direction— and tried to give him a reassuring smile when he did so. She withdrew her hand and returned her attention to the Queen, who had clearly noticed the gesture.

"I understand that there is to be a Landsmeet," Lorelei spoke slowly, and with great care.

"Yes," The Queen straightened, and Lorelei wondered if perhaps it was customary for her to lean forward slightly when she spoke— it was difficult for her to do so at present, of course, but it was a mannerism that the Warden-mage had noticed was typical for her father, the Teyrn Loghain. "I was wondering, Warden— how much do you know of recent events in the north?"

"Very little," the admission was easy, "I had heard that there was a civil war, mainly in the northern Coastlands. There were rumours, of course, of the slaughter in Highever, but for the most part, we were occupied with the darkspawn incursion." The Queen didn't nod, though she did tilt her head forward, as if indicating assent. Lorelei echoed the gesture, and examined the woman more closely— something tickled the edge of her awareness, that strange sense that she had since realised was linked to her ability to enter the Fade at will, rather than being something common among mages or Grey Wardens.

"The Arl of Amaranthine turned on his liege lord, the Teyrn of Highever," Queen Anora explained carefully, "His armies slaughtered the occupants of the castle, right down to the children and servants— but the youngest son escaped."

"Aedan," Lorelei said softly, and the Queen nodded, then winced. Lorelei's fingers twitched, and she forced them still. She had a feeling that the Queen was annoyed enough that any weakness showed at all— it would not do to bring more attention to it. "He was at Ostagar, looking for his brother."

"Fergus was sent south with the bulk of Highever's army just before the castle was attacked," the Queen continued, "I was told that my husband, the King—" there was a flash of grief, then, and Lorelei did her best to give no sign that she'd noticed, though Alistair shifted slightly in his chair. "I was told that he promised to march north after the battle and bring Arl Howe to justice. When he was unable to do so immediately after the battle, the brothers and a very small group of Highever soldiers went north on their own, and most of the Banns sworn to their family rallied behind them. Those that did not sided with Howe— and when the Couslands prevailed, several seats on the Landsmeet were left empty." The Queen shifted, and then she winced and clenched her jaw tight. Seconds passed, and Lorelei shifted a few inches forward in her chair just as Anora relaxed, letting out a slow, soft breath.

"The Landsmeet," she continued crisply, "Is convening to— among other things— discuss what is to be done with those seats."

"Won't they also have to address—" Alistair started, then froze, eyes wide and seeking Lorelei's, as he realised what he'd been about to say, and to whom. The Queen arched one delicate, perfect eyebrow in his direction, and Lorelei's brother-in-blood-and-arms blushed bright pink. "I mean, with the King— and— oh Maker, _I'm sorry_ , your Majesty."

"Thank you, Warden," the Queen said, and though most people might have assumed that she was annoyed with Alistair's fumbling, Lorelei thought that there was enough warmth in her tone to suggest that she was amused.

"You are not wrong," Anora admitted, "Though I believe that I have earned the right to remain on the throne, with Cailan's death, the Landsmeet must decide if I am to rule, and in which capacity." Her expression was speculative as she eyed Alistair, then Lorelei, then Alistair again— Lorelei had actually grown somewhat used to such scrutiny, but her Chantry-trained brother squirmed as if being prodded with heated irons.

"You asked Alistair here to find out if he intends to challenge your rule," Lorelei blurted the words out before she'd finished considering them, and she bit down on her lip as both Alistair and Anora turned sharp looks in her direction. Alistair continued to stare, but the Queen was much more quick to compose herself, and from her expression, Lorelei wondered if she was suppressing a smile— perhaps even laughter.

"Perhaps not how I would have worded it," the Queen said slowly, the wry humour in her voice confirming Lorelei's suspicions. "But essentially— yes."

"You mean you know—"

"I am not a fool," the Queen said, with enough of an edge to her voice that Alistair drew back as if stung, "Even if Cailan had not spoken of you— and he did, on several occasions— I would have known you for what you are as soon as I saw your face." Alistair's lips formed a thin line, and his hands tightened into fists before he forced them flat on his thighs. The Queen had not used the word _bastard_ , but there was no doubting her meaning.

"Alistair has no designs on the throne, your Majesty," Lorelei said, then went abruptly silent when Anora lifted her hand. Lorelei frowned— not at the gesture, but at the Queen's swollen hand and fingers— and the fact that the Queen was not wearing so much as a wedding ring. The Queen was known to be a slender woman, and even with pregnancy, such swelling was— Lorelei put the thought aside, but did not dismiss it completely, as Anora began to speak.

"I beg your pardon," the Queen's voice was actually rather gentle as she addressed Alistair, and though her regard was piercing, it was not entirely unkind. "I would like to hear that from Alistair himself."

"I don't," Alistair choked on the words before he was able to reign himself in, "I _don't_ want to be King. I don't know who told you otherwise, but—" He glanced over at Lorelei, and quickly looked away. They both knew who had to have suggested such a thing, but neither of them wanted to admit it— Lorelei, because the whole discussion was awkward and distasteful and Alistair out of a loyalty that Lorelei didn't believe Eamon even remotely deserved. "If you want to the throne, your Majesty, you're more than welcome to it as far as I'm concerned. From what I've heard, you're quite good at the whole—" He gestured expressively, and the Queen blinked, then smiled.

"Thank you," she said wryly, and Alistair blanched. The Queen held up her hand again before he could apologise. "I am glad that _one_ rumour, at least, can be put to rest." This time, it was the Queen's Elven handmaiden who stiffened, then relaxed in a deliberate sort of way, eyeing both Grey Wardens with the sort of wariness that Lorelei recognised immediately. She'd seen it in the faces of Elves, mages, common-born humans: it was the wariness of one who knew they were in the presence of a person of higher standing or superior ability— someone who posed an inescapable threat to their very existence.

To Lorelei's relief— and Alistair's as well, if she was correct in the interpretation of his expression— the Queen spoke no more of rumours. Lorelei was glad, for she was no fan of such things, particularly when they were meant to destroy reputation or nerve or even the very being of a person. It was an even greater mercy that the Queen did not ask after Cailan's last moments, for Lorelei neither wanted to lie nor speak ill of the dead— nor reveal that the King's support of the Wardens had been angrily withdrawn moments before he'd been killed.

Alistair was halfway to the door as soon as the polite dismissal passed the Queen's lips, but something held Lorelei back— a sort of pull, not unlike the call that all healers felt when they sensed an injury.

"Lorelei, what—" Alistair's didn't finish; his eyes went wide and round and Lorelei turned just as the Queen let out a strangled cry and collapsed to the floor, dragging her handmaiden down with her. "Maker!"

"Alistair, call for the midwife— and if you can get him, Anders," Alistair's mouth began to open and close like a landed fish. "Do it now!" Lorelei had already crossed the room, and was helping the maid shift the Queen into a more comfortable position as she called upon her magic. It came with an ease and quickness that almost alarmed her, but she did not have time to consider what that meant.

Alistair's strong warrior's voice echoed back to her as he did exactly what she'd asked. Several servants came by to gape at them from the doorway, but scurried off when Alistair returned with the royal midwife, who told them quite clearly that they weren't needed, and that if they wanted to keep all their skin, they'd better not remain in her way.

"Will she be all right?" Lorelei blinked, taking a moment to look into the frightened eyes of the Queen's maidservant, who was not only Elven, but apparently Orlesian as well. Considering Loghain's opinion of Orlesians, Lorelei found that more than a little curious.

"Of course she will," she said firmly, just as the midwife settled on her knees in front of the Queen, to Lorelei's right.

"I imagine," the Queen gasped, "That it is unlikely that you would say otherwise within my hearing."

"Be that as it may," Lorelei said, surprised that her voice sounded so calm as the midwife began to call for servants and give clear, confident-sounding orders, "I assure you, your Majesty, that I am a terrible liar— so were my statement untrue, you would likely know it to be so." The Queen's response sounded very much like laughter, huffed and snorted between gasps of breath.

"You are a mage? Healer?" The midwife said, and Lorelei finally took a proper look to her right, where she found a plain-faced woman with stringy hair and a wide, stern mouth. She reminded Lorelei of a mabari, and it seemed oddly appropriate, somehow. Lorelei nodded, and the midwife winced— not a good sign.

"Are there concerns about the Chantry?" She asked, and the woman glowered— it was fierce enough that Lorelei actually drew back.

"There are always _concerns_ with that lot," the midwife said finally, her mouth settling into a grim— almost angry— line. The hair on the back of Lorelei's neck stood on end as the woman stared, unblinking, into her eyes. There was a story there, and a challenge, and while there was no time for the former, she decided not to refuse the latter.

"I am happy to offer my assistance, if you'll have it," she said finally, "And that of my brother Grey Warden, Anders, if he's found soon enough."

"Grey Warden?" The midwife leaned back, studying her more closely, no doubt finally noticing the Grey Warden rampant on the sash that she wore over her robes. "Ah," she said, face almost transforming as she smiled. "You'll be the Hero of Ferelden, then, the Grey Warden Mageling Girl Lorelei." Lorelei winced, more at the 'Hero of Ferelden' bit than at the rest. She'd been addressed as 'mageling' and 'girl', and both together, many times.

"Well, now, her name isn't actually half that long," Anders drawled from the doorway.

"We don't have time to discuss my _name_ ," Lorelei snapped, gesturing to the Queen, whose eyes were beginning to roll back in her head. Lorelei glanced over at Alistair, who looked like all of the blood had fled his face and neck to hide somewhere under his breastplate.

"Alistair, report to Loghain and then to Warren— or both at once if they're together, which they might be," she said, and the templar disappeared down the hall like he'd been shot from a cannon. The Elven maid stepped away and Anders took her place, leaving the Queen with a mage on each arm, a midwife in front of her, and a nearly frantic Elven maid off to the side wringing her hands and praying softly under her breath in Orlesian.

Lorelei and Anders wove their magic together, and she was briefly aware of his spirit, brushing against her from the other side of the Fade. It became easier as they found their rhythm, and she was reminded of why, precisely, the Circle had worked so hard to convince Anders to stop trying to escape rather than just executing him or having him made Tranquil, for he really was a brilliant and powerful healer. Her fears for the Queen's safety all but disappeared— and it was not long before even the gruff midwife looked profoundly relieved. Then Queen Anora was conscious, and the real ordeal began.

By the end of the birthing process, Lorelei's respect for the Queen— and for mothers in general— had increased by a thousand times.

* * *

Lorelei hugged herself awkwardly as she waited in the doorway, unable, for some reason, to call Alistair's attention away from the items spread out across his bed— including a dagger, a shield, and several piles of correspondence. When Warren had told her, as people poured out of the Landsmeet chamber, that he had gifted all of Duncan's personal effects to the Chantry-raised Warden, she had felt compelled to find him in his rooms, following her darkspawn-blood-and-Fade-given senses through the twisting hallways of the Compound.

She found, now that she had arrived, that she did not know what to say, or what sort of comfort to offer.

Then Alistair turned, spotted her, then smiled— it was not unlike a stormy sky suddenly free of clouds, that smile— and rather than reassured, she was more nervous. It was silly, of course, but the declaration of— affection, infatuation, or whatever it was— still hung heavy between them.

"Hello," his voice was bright, but he lowered it as he stepped toward her, "How was the Landsmeet?"

"I think that it went rather well," she shrugged, just a little, then smiled despite her heavy thoughts.

"There weren't any problems? Because Cailan didn't—"

"Though Cailan never acknowledged the Queen's child," Lorelei said softly, "He did not refuse to do so, either. There were no direct indications that he believed her unfaithful— they _were_ married, and by all accounts, the only indiscretions could be traced back to the King, not her Majesty. While there were some pretty nasty rumours, there was no actual evidence to back any of them up. And— well, the princess is the picture of the Rebel Queen, right down to the red hair and the Theirin nose, so that put most of it to rest." Alistair responded by fingering his own nose, then grinning.

"She'll discover the Theirin love of cheese soon enough, then," he said gleefully, and Lorelei covered her face with her hands, successfully hiding her expression but not the giggles that slipped through her fingers and bounced around the room.

"She'll be with a wet nurse for a while now— she's barely been named, and that was rushed, in order for it to be done before the Landsmeet."

"I heard— Deirdre Theirin," he said, sounding wistful, "It's a pretty name. Is it true that she was named for Teyrn Loghain's mother— and wasn't she murdered for Orlesians during the occupation? A bit impolitic, isn't it?"

"Yes and no," Lorelei held her hands out, flat, as if weighing two objects in her palms, "I think that Queen Anora chose the name to honour her father's mother, not to declare any sort of political agenda. And as you said, it is a pretty name." Lorelei couldn't help but glance behind Alistair, at his bed and at what remained of Duncan's earthly belongings.

"Warren gave me his things," Alistair said, following the path of her eyes, and his face became somewhat grave. There was no need to speak Duncan's name aloud. "I— I thought that if I had something to remember him by, it might be easier." He shook his head. "It isn't, not really."

"He was like a father to you."

"Sort of," Alistair shrugged gracelessly, eyes sweeping over his bed and grief pulling the edges of his mouth down. "He was the first person to actually care what _I_ wanted. I miss him. After Ostagar— I thought I'd lost him, and then he was there— I just keep expecting him to walk through the door and ask me what I'm doing with his things." Lorelei nodded; Duncan had been formidable, to the point where he had almost seemed immortal. Lorelei would never have believed that she, of all people, would actually outlive the former Warden-Commander of Ferelden.

"Duncan told me, before we left for Redcliffe— he'd been having the dreams, you see." Lorelei nodded; she had attended him several times after Wynne and Anders had brought him back from the brink of death. "He said that he'd be going to Orzammar soon. I know that he would have preferred to die in battle." Alistair shook his head. "I was so mad at you, you know— you and Warren." He smiled, ruefully, "I hated that Duncan had to give up his turn at the Archdemon to fool the King, and keep him out of the way. He should have been the one to slay the Archdemon, end the Blight, and be honoured as the latest of only five Grey Wardens to do so."

"I'm sorry, Alistair."

"No, no," Alistair was suddenly aghast, as if he only just realised the full implications of his declaration (and, knowing Alistair, this was precisely the case). "I didn't _mean_ —"

"I know what you meant," Lorelei patted Alistair on the shoulder, somewhat uncomfortable with the conversation but unwilling to deny her comrade, brother, and _friend_ what he needed. "His sacrifice is what made it possible for the Blight to be ended, even if he didn't strike the final blow himself."

"Cailan still figured it out."

"Yes," she said softly, glancing away and seeing something very different from Alistair's room, sitting in front of her eyes. "I think that we underestimated the King's intelligence, in the end. But be that as it may, Duncan did his duty, as did Riordan. That neither of them drove a sword through the dragon's skull— not easy for a mouse of a mage, by the way— their support was crucial."

"I know that you didn't see him like I did," he shifted from one foot to the other, refusing to look at her face as he wrestled with a terrible grief— it wasn't just Duncan that had died, but that, in the days before he died, Alistair's shiny hero had been tarnished by hints of a not-so-perfect man underneath. "But I—"

"Alistair," she said softly, reaching out. She stopped at the crucial moment, unable, for some reason, to close the final inches of distance between the tips of her fingers and his smooth-shaven cheek. It was odd to see him so; while in Ostagar, he'd sported light stubble, and his resemblance to Cailan was all the more prominent for it. She withdrew her hand.

"I don't know how you survived," Alistair said, moving the topic of conversation away from the subject that he found most uncomfortable to the one that she did, "But I'm glad, even if it's blasphemous to say it." He smiled again, and Lorelei couldn't resist smiling back.

"I'm glad you survived, too." She ignored the implied question, and to her immense relief, Alistair didn't push the matter— instead, she let him regale her with stories that he'd heard from and about his former mentor.

If Alistair's version of Duncan seemed just a bit too virtuous, or more like a solid warrior than a quick-footed, roguish type, Lorelei said nothing. She gave no indication that she saw any inconsistencies at all between what she'd seen and what Alistair said. Duncan was dead; she thought it fine enough that he be, at least in memory— at least briefly— whatever her Chantry-raised, hero-worshipping friend needed him to be. She let Alistair tell it as he saw it, as he imagined it— and let him talk through it, turning his sense of loss into good memories and tall tales. Alistair had loved Duncan, and he had lost him— it was enough, she thought, that he had to struggle with that. Forcing him to sacrifice his admiration of the first person to ever give him a choice seemed cruel and unnecessary, and she would not— maybe could not— do it.

* * *

When her visitor turned to face her, Lorelei took a startled step backward.

"Your Grace," she said slowly, and the resulting expression was as much a wince as it was a smile. Before she could dip into the standard curtsy, strong hands closed around her shoulders and drew her back up.

"Please! I will not have the _Hero of Ferelden_ bowing to me," he said wryly, "A mere mortal Teyrn." He flinched, just a little, at the title, even though he was the one who spoke the word. The last time she'd seen this man, he'd been unaware of the murders of his family, including his wife and young son. He'd also been unconscious, so she hadn't had much of an impression of his personality.

"I am very sorry, your Grace," she answered, and he stared straight into her eyes for several minutes before he released her and stepped back. For the barest moment, it was as if his soul were laid bare and displayed upon his face— then the faceless mask of a practiced politician reasserted itself. She straightened, recognising that the painful moment had passed, and that it was ill-advised to drag it out.

"What can I do for you, your Grace?" She asked, tilting her head to one side as she looked up at him. His reaction to the address was a subtle tightening around the eyes, but his smile seemed of the sort that came often and easily.

"Please, call me Fergus."

"I— that would not be proper." She could not help the last time she'd been asked to use a noble's first name, and it was not a memory with which she was comfortable. Fergus laughed, and leaned in— not close enough to be improper, just close enough to feel almost— conspiratorial.

"Just between us," he said, lowering his voice— and all at once, it occurred to her that the Cousland boys' reputation for being charismatic was well-deserved— "I like to escape the pompous posturing to which I was born whenever I can." His expression darkened, but only for a moment, "And as far as I'm concerned, since I was selfishly pursuing personal revenge in the North while you were saving all of Thedas, you out-rank me anyway, _Grey Warden_." Lorelei blinked at the mix of respect and shame on the Teyrn's face, and found herself gaping like a fish for several moments. Fergus Cousland straightened and, ever the gentleman, calmly waited for her to find her composure once more.

"I am— honoured, your Grace," he raised both eyebrows at her, and she felt her lips twitch towards a smile, "Fergus." His name felt completely different on her tongue than Cailan's had, and his smile was wide, bright, and full of good humour. It reminded her of— someone, but the impression was there and gone before she could pin it down.

"If I might have the honour," he said, "If it is not an imposition, I mean— may I use your name as well?" She couldn't help but smile.

"You may, of course, call me Lorelei," she said finally, discovering as she said the words that she meant them unreservedly. "There are not so many Grey Wardens in Ferelden, but there are enough that it might get confusing should you use only the title all the time."

"Especially here, in the Compound," he agreed, and she found that she quite liked his easy humour. It reminded her of Alistair, only without that puppy-dog quality— Fergus Cousland did not particularly need to impress anyone, he simply _was_. She imagined that he was as terribly in his anger and as bereft in his grief as he was joyous in his good humour, and it was refreshing to feel as if she was not trying to perform a dance without knowing the steps, or even the true disposition of her partner. He offered his arm, and she took it, knowing that she had no need to fear that he would interpret it as anything more than what it was. It was fine to know that the difference between their stations was there, without having to underline it as a protection against impropriety.

"I should explain my visit," he said finally, leading her expertly through the Compound's garden, which was clearly Orlesian in design, but populated with singularly useful plants— she recognised several that were used medicinally, some of them difficult to cultivate, some of them clearly not native to Northern Ferelden. The flowers were pretty, of course, but it was the melding of Orlesian fashion with Fereldan practicality that struck her most strongly. "I asked to meet you only partially for the honour of meeting the Dragonslayer," the reverence that he granted those two words was paired with an edge of irony, and she was reminded— oddly enough— both of Cailan and Loghain. "And it _is_ a great honour, but I also heard that you were among those that treated me at Ostagar and I wished to thank you personally." There was something else, of course; Fergus Cousland was charming, open, and— if her judgement had not been sacrificed instead of her life when she'd slain the Archdemon— a mostly honest sort, but he was also one of the most powerful politicians in the country. He had been raised, from birth, to run his Teyrnir and contribute to the leadership of the country; had he been incompetent or shallow, his brother would have been named heir.

"It was nothing," she shrugged lightly; the answer was easy because it was true. "By the time I saw you, most of the difficult work had been done, by one more skilled than I." This was also true— though they used different methods, the Chasind healers that had cared for Fergus had been knowledgeable in healing traditions of which Lorelei herself knew nothing— save for the odd rumour or reference. She was careful not to mention magic specifically, though she started at Fergus's next declaration.

"Yes, Chani and her father," his lips twisted into a smirk that was odd in that it lacked the contempt to which she was accustomed, "They were a tremendous help to us, when we marched north. She, in particular, made quite the impression on Aedan." Lorelei blinked at the implication— she had met both Wilders, and knew them to be mages— and his face softened, seeming sad and happy at once.

"Are— will congratulations be in order, your Grace?" She realised too late that she'd switched back to the formal address, but rather than call attention to her nervousness, the Teyrn of Highever just smiled.

"I expect so," he answered, "I imagine that my brother's choice in bride will cause some shouting, but it will settle down soon enough." Lorelei frowned, wondering if he knew the truth of it— did he not realise that Chani was a mage? There was something in the twist of his lips that suggested that he knew that there was significantly more to it than the standard political fallout from a high-ranking noble marrying a commoner. Chani and Efraim were Wilders— barbarians, even— that alone would cause shouting. That they both had magic would cause an outright war within the Landsmeet; it carried with it the threat of an Exalted March. Fergus was watching her, and she realised with a start that this wasn't just a conversation with a Grey Warden.

It was a conversation with the one living Grey Warden who had met his soon-to-be sister- and father-in-law, and perhaps the one person outside of his family or command that knew them to be apostates.

"There is the issue of the nobility, of course," he continued, his manner slightly too smooth for it not to be intentionally so, "And the empty seats at the Landsmeet. Aedan and I have discussed the future of the Arling of Amaranthine in particular."

"In what way does this concern the Wardens— myself in particular— your Grace?" Her shift to the more formal address was deliberate this time; she suspected that he was about to offer her a title in exchange for her silence, and it was in honour of _his_ shift to a more political creature that she made it. He stopped, and she narrowly avoided being jerked backwards by the suddenness of it.

"I have advised my brother in this matter," he said finally, and she wondered if he had loosed all of the air from his lungs in that one great breath that was half-huff, half-sigh. "But he will not be deterred, and— having had my chance at love, I cannot deny him his. If I could rely on your discretion, I would be willing to negotiate some substantial donations of lands and properties to the Grey Wardens of Ferelden. It will not be difficult to sway the Landsmeet, and— as you are no doubt aware— there are many empty seats within the purview of the Teyrn of Highever." Lorelei pressed her lips together as she considered his words, and the practical part of her argued that this was something that could be worked to great advantage. The other part of her— the larger part— was appalled at the whole idea. The Teyrn shifted slightly, and she blinked, realising that she'd been staring straight into him without seeing him. She'd been told that was a rather uncomfortable experience, and she smiled an apology.

"I am sorry, your Grace," she said finally, and he stiffened, "But I cannot in good conscience accept a— favour, especially one so great— for a silence that I had no intention of breaking." He gaped at her for several moments before he was able to recover, and even then, his speech was slightly stilted by shock.

"But you—"

"I am a Grey Warden," she said firmly, "As such, I do not involve myself with matters concerning the Chantry. I would ask that you please confer my sincerest congratulations to your brother and the lady both, and should you still wish to offer support to the Wardens, you would be well-served addressing the matter with Warren."

"I— of course," he hesitated, still searching her face for duplicity. In the courts of Orlais, even the most minor favours came with a steep price, and though Ferelden had thrown off the occupation, some of that influence remained— and this was not a minor favour. She found herself thinking back to her conversations— with Warren in particular— and wondering if she didn't have a rather _odd_ sort of luck, after all. She was certainly collecting the gratitude, perhaps even admiration, of highly-placed Ferelden nobles at an alarming rate.

The irony was that the one noble who, perhaps, owed her the most, was the only one disinclined to offer her such consideration. Alistair had been summoned to the Guerrin estate in Denerim several times, and, from his disposition upon his return and his refusal to attend the Landsmeet, it had not gone the way Eamon had wanted. Lorelei remembered that Eamon's face had been particularly pinched-looking as Anora had asked him who should rule if not she, at the very least as Regent for her daughter. She remembered the tiny twitch at the word _daughter_ , and how Teagan had seemed shocked at something his brother had said, under his breath.

She came back to herself to find Fergus wearing a bemused expression, and she waved off his inquiry after her condition.

"I apologise," she said softly, "I sometimes get lost in my thoughts."

"They looked like rather heavy thoughts." He would know the sort, she suspected— the stories of the death of the disgraced Arl Rendon Howe were not pretty ones, and they paled in comparison to the rumours surrounding the massacre at Highever. The forces loyal to the Couslands had at least offered a fair trial to anyone willing to be taken prisoner— Howe's soldiers had buried everyone, from noble to servant, in a mass pit, not even allowing the families the dignity of claiming their own dead.

"I— I was wondering," she said, finally settling on a question, "There was some murmuring about what happened to the Howe family. Did you—"

"I did not," there was a harsh note in the reply, but then the Teyrn seemed to deflate and disappear, leaving a grieving man in his place. "I did not kill them in a fit of rage, if that is what you are asking. His son, Thomas, hanged himself while awaiting judgement, perhaps assuming that I would insist on avenging my dead family in kind." He winced, and rubbed his forehead absently with his free hand. "Whatever sickness turned their father into a monster, it was plain that Thomas and Delilah were not afflicted. Aedan argued that Delilah should be sent to the Free Marches, and after— after some time, he was able to sway me. I can only hope that she is able to find her older brother, Nathaniel, and convince him that further bloodshed can and should be avoided. Our families were— very close, once, and my father considered Rendon to be one of his dearest personal friends." Fergus Cousland wore his agony out in the open, and she found herself again reminded, in an odd sort of way, of Alistair. "I am loathe to admit it, Warden, but this is a large part of why I came to Denerim and left the rebuilding of Highever to my brother." Lorelei nodded.

"I am— glad that you were able to show temperance," she said softly, "It is not an easy thing to do." Indeed it wasn't— had she not been aggressively raised to be meek, she imagined that her reaction to Isolde's torture of Jowan— or Irving's allowances for Uldred, which led to that whole mess and probably several others— would have been much, much different.

Then again, Uldred was dead, and not at the hands of darkspawn. She flinched at the thought, and the memory of hushed conversations and secret manoeuvring. Some day, she would have to face the truth of what she'd put in motion, and how she'd used people to do it. Her innocence had been stripped from her in the shadow of the Blight, and there was no going back to who she had been.

"The Couslands always do their duty," Fergus said dryly, then smirked, "Well, except for our tendency to marry for love."

"Your wife was Antivan, was she not?" Fergus nodded, and though there was still pain in his expression, it was eclipsed by a sort of remembered happiness.

"Yes, she was," he said softly, "Oriana was from a wealthy merchant family, so of course the marriage brought increased trade to Highever, but— she had the most incredible _mind_. She used to help my parents with the accounts, and my mother _adored_ her." She realised, then, that Fergus Cousland was a very handsome man— he had a rougher sort of charm than his more finely-featured brother, but his eyes were bright and clear and startlingly blue and his smile was wide and full of good humour. "She was beautiful, of course, but it was more than that. I had hoped—" He glanced at some unseen landscape over her shoulder, and she saw in his face a wound that would never completely heal. "I miss her."

She possessed no salves that could soothe that ache, and so Lorelei settled for a light, brief touch of fingertips against his shoulder and a silence to honour his loss, which was so much more than two lives ended too soon. Fergus came back to himself slowly, almost like he was awakening from a dream. He smiled at her absently, as if not quite remembering who she was. She smiled back.

"Well," he said finally, "I have wasted enough of your time." He kissed the back of her hand— not as flamboyantly as Cailan would have, but with enough flair to mark him as being a bit of a— not untalented— flirt. "May I call on you again, my lovely Warden?" She knew instinctively that he was teasing her more than really flirting with her, but she still flushed uncomfortably.

"I am always honoured to receive you, your Grace." Fergus wrinkled his nose.

"Fergus," he said, and she was aware of something changing between them— a change that made friendship a distinct possibility. It was not a feeling she was familiar with. The few friends she'd acquired had been like a sudden revelation of a previously established order.

"Lorelei," she answered, and his smile could have outshone the sun.

"Just so," he declared, and took his leave with a bow. She refused to allow it to go without answer, and there they were, following the protocol while making a mockery of it. When she finally turned to re-enter the Compound proper, Warren was there, with his arms crossed over his chest and one eyebrow sharply arched.

"Don't you start," she warned him, though her voice sounded more tired than menacing. She stepped around him, and his low, throaty chuckle followed her all the way to her rooms, where she asked the bewildered girl in the mirror, "Dragonslayer? _Hero of Ferelden_?"

* * *

"You will let me pass at once!" Alistair had been about to offer a greeting, but as soon as the raised voice reached them, his smile promptly fled from his face, taking his greeting with it. He looked around, as if for an escape, and then took several steps back into the kitchens. Lorelei followed him, motioning for the cook— an Elf who had once served as the much-abused assistant to the Arl of Denerim's cook— to close the door behind them. He did so, offering her a rare smirk, and they fled through the larder entrance into the practice grounds, from which Alistair had come.

"Please don't make me go talk to him," he said, and then followed it with an explanation so rushed that Lorelei had to urge him to slow down and put space between his words before she could catch much of his meaning. "I know that I shouldn't have just— ignored him, but—"

"Wait," she held both hands up, "Please let me catch up." He smiled sheepishly, and she took a slow, steadying breath. "When did you start ignoring the Arl's messages?" The combination of guilt and fear on his face struck her as particularly alarming; she was used to the guilt, in some form, but he was looking at her like she was a hurlock about to remove his head from his body. "Alistair..."

"It wasn't like you'd think," he said, then stopped, as if suddenly remembering to whom he spoke. "Well, I'm not sure what you'll think, actually, but he said— Eamon, I mean—"

"Alistair." She spoke more sharply than she'd intended, and he flushed brightly.

"Eamon has been trying to convince me that I should—" he swallowed, "A few days ago he was talking about having Anora _removed_ , and I couldn't— I haven't spoken to him since." Lorelei wondered if all the blood had been somehow syphoned from her body, the chill was that intense, and Alistair's face twisted into a grimace that she knew only too well. "Shall I..?" She nodded, and he moved forward, grabbing hold of her just as the cleanse hit her, humming over her skin and draining the magical energy away. She took several deep breaths as the tingling sensation faded, then stepped back from him as he released his grip.

"Thank you," she said softly, still trembling slightly as her mana came back to her and the rushing in her ears subsided, replaced with the soft whispering of the Fade, ever-present at the edge of her awareness. She realised, then, that Alistair was staring at her, wearing a very strange expression.

"Lorelei," his voice caught, and she blinked, somewhat confused by the look on his face.

"What is it? I've recovered from a cleanse before, I—"

"That _wasn't_ a cleanse," he said, and she started, trying to remember which gestures he'd made, and in which order— and then her breath caught in her throat. "That was— Maker's _breath_ , Lorelei, that was a full smite!" Which meant that she shouldn't have recovered nearly so quickly— Alistair had learned not to send her flying, but it should have _hurt_ , at least a little, and she should have been helpless for more than a few seconds. That was the _point_ of a Holy Smite: incapacitate the mage. That she was barely inconvenienced by something that should have left her helpless was more than a curiosity; it carried with it some very frightening possibilities.

"We'll have to deal with that later," she said, loathe to put the matter aside but knowing that it could wait, unlike Alistair's predicament. "We need to talk about Eamon right now."

"But—"

"Alistair," she said, "We can talk about my— _condition_ — at any time. It is unlikely to change, and we don't know enough about it to make any conclusions." Alistair nodded reluctantly, and she continued, "I need to know exactly what was said before you left."

"But it was just talk—"

"Alistair," he wasn't able to meet her eyes, and she winced, then softened her tone. " _Talk_ is very, very dangerous, especially if it's treason. I need to know if he's trying to involve you or _implicate_ you." Alistair's eyes were wide with shock.

"Eamon would never—" It was physically painful to watch the transformation that took place as Alistair's mind put the pieces together, firm conviction turning into tenuous hope. "—Would he..?" Lorelei blinked back tears of helpless rage as she realised that she would have to shatter that hope, and probably what was left of her friend's innocence.

"I am sorry, Alistair," she said, keeping her voice firm with considerable effort. "But I believe that he would."

" _Maker_ ," he whispered, and she was grateful that there was a bench ready to catch him as he slumped onto it, burying his head in his hands. When he looked up at her again, his eyes were bright. "Is this how it is, then? Everyone out for themselves, even if people get hurt in the process?" Before she could do more than take a step forward, he looked away from her, fists tightening around his knees in a bruising grip. "You must think that I'm a complete _idiot_."

She didn't plan it; before she even realised what she was doing, she had closed the distance between them and placed her hands on his, sending the tiniest amount of healing magic through them and into his legs, disappearing finger-shaped bruises before they could form. He jerked slightly, and she almost lost her balance— and then he looked at her, and she realised that they were so close that their noses were almost touching.

"I think that you are probably the most beautiful idiot that ever lived," she whispered, hoping that she was able to make her point before all her courage left her, taking the words with it, "I think that it would take the rarest sort of person to be even half worthy of the faith you put in people, and that it would take lifetimes of saintly behaviour before someone like me could be someone like _that_. I think that you could be anything you wanted, and be wonderful at it, be it Priest or Prince or Grey Warden and I think that anyone that doesn't realise what a treasure you are is a fool of the highest order." She started to pull away, but she was barely standing before he leapt up and grabbed ahold of her shoulders, almost dragging her into his lap when he sat back down. She braced herself against his chest with her arms, unable to break eye contact until she caught her breath. She had not meant to say that much— she had hoped to keep Alistair from beating himself up, and had instead revealed a depth of feeling that she hadn't been willing to admit that she had.

"I think," she continued, trembling as her body realised that flight was not an option, "I think that it is Arl Eamon who is an idiot, Alistair, and I think that he always was." And perhaps she was quite the fool herself, too certain that she could not _possibly_ deserve the feelings that Alistair claimed for her to realise that perhaps she had feelings, too.

"I—" Alistair worked his jaw fruitlessly, and she smiled thinly, all too familiar with the feeling herself. "— _Wow_."

"We really have to talk about Eamon, Alistair," she said finally, and he turned— she hadn't realised that this was possible— an even brighter shade of red as he remembered their proximity. He let go of her arms, and she straightened, then took a seat beside him.

"Do you really think he would—"

"Yes," she made the interruption as gentle as she could, "Yes, Alistair, I do. Eamon has been watching his influence erode exponentially for years. I suspect that he never had the kind of influence that he desired. I honestly believe that he was grooming Connor to be Cailan's heir, and that he held on to your loyalty, even after sending you to the Chantry, as a— contingency. I imagine that even if he were to convince you to oppose Anora, if, as King, you did not then put him in some high-ranking, almost-king position like, say, Chancellor— well, I think that he would have yet another plan, this time with you as the one that needs to be _removed_." Alistair winced.

"You— really don't like Eamon, do you?"

"I don't like bullies," she answered simply, "I don't like people who seek to advance their position and don't care about who they hurt to do it. I don't like people who claim to be noble but are willing to ignore their responsibilities to those around them. I don't like people who make promises while trying to think of a way to avoid actually honouring them. No, Alistair, I do not like Eamon. I do not like Eamon even a little bit."

"But it was _Isolde_ who sent me to the Chantry," Alistair protested, and Lorelei shook her head.

"You know well my opinion of the Arlessa Isolde," she said softly, "But I do not believe that she ever had that kind of power. Perhaps she asked Eamon to send you away, but if he indulged her, it was because it served his own purposes to do so." Alistair shifted, and when he looked at her, it was with an expression that she'd hoped never to see directed at her— most especially not by him— one of mingled shock and horror. Then he spoke, and she realised that the expression was not actually for her.

"You don't think that he _intentionally_ let her believe that I was his bastard, do you?" She didn't answer, and Alistair, true to form, turned his horror into guilt. " _Maker_ , all this time, I thought she was just— _evil_ — but if Eamon— how she must have _felt_ — but why would he _do_ that? I mean, he _loved_ her, didn't he? That's why he married an Orlesian—"

"Alistair," she would have regretted being so sharp with the interruption, but not only had they wandered from the more urgent discussion, this direction was bringing no small amount of pain to her friend. "We need to focus on what Eamon is doing now, not what he has done. You need to tell me everything, so we can decide what to do."

"—We?"

"Yes, _we_ ," she said, watching his face as he realised the import of her declaration, "You are a _Grey Warden_ , and the Ferelden Grey Wardens face everything as a team, be it darkspawn or political intrigue." Her lips twitched slightly as she added, "And I think that you and I work rather well together— don't we?"

"Yeah," he said, a ghost of the Alistair-that-was showing briefly through his smile as he reached out and squeezed her hand. "We really do."

Then, turning uncharacteristically solemn, he began to tell her about his meetings with Eamon, and she realised that not only was the Arl of Redcliffe was precisely the sort of man that she'd feared he was, but that Alistair had been struggling with himself even before the last battle with the Archdemon. The signs had been there, and they'd all ignored them in favour of more urgent problems.

Lorelei wondered if she would ever think of a sufficient apology for that slight.

* * *

"Thank you for agreeing to see me, your Grace." Fergus Cousland wrinkled his nose at her as he dismissed the servants from the room and ushered her towards the table, where he took pains to seat her as if she were a noble lady.

"Fergus," he corrected, pushing her chair in and then taking the seat opposite her, "Unless, of course, you are here on official business— in which case, I am absolutely devastated by your coquettish ways, my dear Warden."

"Broken-hearted, I'm sure," she said dryly, cataloguing the food on the table. It was a pleasant surprise that everything could be easily— and politely— eaten with one's hands. Fergus put his hand over his heart and feigned death, sagging in his chair, but he was straight-backed and grinning in a flash. She suspected that he quite enjoyed flirting, especially flirting that carried no potential or expectations. "But I did want to discuss a matter of some delicacy with you."

"What is it?" The boyish flirt was gone with a startling suddenness as the practical Teyrn asserted himself without an instant of hesitation.

"A question," she shifted slightly in her chair, then looked towards her plate for a distraction. She picked a piece of bright red fruit and began nibbling on it absently as she tried to phrase her question so that it didn't seem quite so inappropriate. She failed, sighed, and settled for the direct approach. She stared him square in the eyes and said, "What usually happens to the bastard children of a highly-placed Ferelden noble?" Fergus dropped the piece of cheese he'd been about to eat, and it bounced off the table and into the waiting maw of a very happy wardog. He eyed the dog for a few moments, then returned to Lorelei's question, rubbing at the bridge of his nose with the tip of his finger.

"You don't ask the easy ones, do you?" He said ruefully, and she smiled thinly in response. "It depends on how high-ranking the noble, frankly. For an Arl, or a Teyrn, or— Maker forbid— a King, the child would likely be placed with the family of a lesser noble. This family would be paid a stipend to secure the child's education, training, lodging, food, and clothing, and would be expected to treat him or her like a member of the family— perhaps they would be squired out or given some other position that suits their skills. I've seen bastard children become knights, soldiers, merchants, craftsman and city guards, but they very rarely become servants— and when that happens, it is usually because they are the child of a very minor Bann who cannot give them greater station without sacrificing what would be granted to his legitimate heirs— there was a case like that, once, where the offending Bann was challenged in the Landsmeet for begetting bastards and refusing to support them. He lost his title, and his lands and properties were divided amongst his bastards, save for the land that belonged to his wife."

"That was— Bann William, wasn't it? Of Black Point?" Despite the grim subject matter, Fergus grinned.

"You know your Ferelden history," he lifted his wineglass, as if toasting her for her cleverness. Black Point was north of Kinloch Hold, sandwiched between the northern tip of Lake Calenhad and the Waking Sea, where it stretched its watery fingers into Ferelden. It fell within the Arling of West Hill, absorbed when all of the disgraced Bann's descendants had died, most under suspicious circumstances.

"That's in your Teynir, isn't it?" She said suddenly, and Fergus raised his eyebrows at her before he nodded. "It just struck me as a particularly well-placed location," she explained, and his expression turned speculative, "I understand that it has been abandoned for some time, but—"

"I will have to ask Bann Franderel," he said softly, "But it is something to consider, once we are past the immediate needs of the kingdom." He tilted his head. "Why did you ask me about bastards? Are you— considering a wild affair with a highly-placed noble?" He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively, and she laughed, shaking her head.

"I was just—" she stopped, realising the corner into which she'd put herself. She considered Fergus Cousland for a few minutes, then she sighed, studying her plate as she spoke. "What would you say if I were to tell you that a bastard son of a high-placed noble lived in the stables of a lesser noble for several years before being shipped off to the Chantry, with great pains taken to convince him that he was to amount to nothing? That he was told of his origins, but forbidden to ever reveal them?" When she looked up again, she started at different Fergus Cousland suddenly looked, though he had all the same features. There was a darkness, there, a heaviness in the air that Lorelei realised was a living, deadly anger. She closed her mouth and carefully placed the biscuit that she'd been working on— a distant part of her noted that she'd already devoured several of them— on the edge of her plate. Her magic hummed around her, and she realised that she was disturbed enough that she was readying herself for battle. She took a deep breath and pushed her power back into the Fade, where it belonged, clamping down on the fear that had sprung up in response to the teyrn's reaction to her question.

"I would say," Fergus said finally, each word clipped at the end as if he had cut them with a blade, "That the nobles involved did not deserve their titles— and that, should any of them or their heirs still be living, the accusation of that behaviour would be a very dangerous— and damaging— accusation to make." She was very aware of his eyes on her as he spoke, and she wondered if he was willing her to make some sort of confession.

"Such things are, I've heard, not uncommon in Orlais," she said finally, wincing as she realised that of all the things she could have chosen to say, that was perhaps not the wisest.

"That's because the nobles in Orlais have all the power," Fergus answered evenly, "In Ferelden, the nobles only have power as long as they foster the loyalty of the Banns, who have their power because they court the loyalty of the freeholders. Though some of the Empire's influence still remains, most nobles realise that we serve our people just as they serve us. My family, in particular, tries to remember its less glamorous roots: the first Cousland who took stewardship of Highever was the Captain of the Guard, until the Bann was killed and his bloodline ended."

"That was— Bann Conobar Elstan, correct?" Fergus nodded.

"Aldous would have _loved_ you," his eyes lost some of their shine as he spoke, and she realised that Aldous must have been one of those killed by Howe's attack on Highever. "Yes, that was Bann Conobar, known to history as the man who married, and would later be killed by, a beautiful mage named Flemeth." His mouth twitched, then, and as she contemplated the woman-of-many-years-and-many-forms-including-a- _dragon_ , Fergus clearly thought of other things. "Now, Captain of the Guard is a title that I would not be surprised to see carried by a bastard, perhaps of the liege-lord of whomever he served." He winced, "But I wish that I hadn't thought of that. The Elstans were cousins of the Howes, and back then, Highever was a beholden to Amaranthine." Lorelei nodded, understanding that, with the recent past, it would be a painful thing to imply that the first Cousland to hold a title might have been the bastard child of a Howe.

"I did not mean to upset you," she said, and, after a moment of hesitation, took her first sip of the wine. It was— sweeter than she expected, with a slightly salty aftertaste. Fergus waved off her apology, and too late, she noticed the dangerous light in his eyes as he leaned forward.

"You were speaking of someone specific," he said, "And forgive me, but I must inquire as to his identity— one of your fellow mages, perhaps?"

"That is not my secret to reveal, your Grace," she paused, allowing her use of the formal address to sink in, "I must, of course, impose upon you for your discretion."

"Of course," he searched her face until he found something that satisfied him— she had no idea what it could be, but she was glad to be free from the increased intensity of his attention. "You can depend on that, at the very least." She smiled, then, and he smiled back.

It was a disconcerting moment indeed when she allowed herself to consider the possibility that the Teyrn of Highever might someday be her friend.

* * *

Lorelei let her breath out in a huff, realising that she'd kicked her slippers under the bed and out of her reach in her hurry to rise and answer the knock at her door. She considered blasting the culprit and door both, but the idea was dismissed as soon as it occurred to her. She pulled her robe tight and knotted the sash at her waist as she approached the door in little jumps, feet shying away from the cold stone floor.

"I'm sorry, Lorelei, but I— oh," Alistair went from guilty to bashful, and before he looked away, she managed to follow his gaze downward to her chest, where the thin dressing gown did nothing to keep out the cold and very little to hide her figure— what little figure she had, anyway, as Lorelei had never been voluptuous. "I'm sorry. This was a bad idea." She made a face at him, though he didn't see it as he was still studying the empty corridor.

"Come in and close the door behind you," she said, noting that her voice sounded— understandably— tired as she skipped across the room and sat on her bed, folding her legs underneath her and wrapping a blanket around her chest, under her armpits and over her legs and feet. Alistair remained in the doorway, still looking scared to look anywhere.

"I really didn't mean to—"

"Alistair, it's the middle of the night," she cast a minor fire spell, just a spark to light the fireplace in her room, and gestured for him to take the chair at her writing desk. "I'm awake now, so let's have it, whatever it is that you want to talk to me about." She felt her mouth twitch, just at one corner, and she added, "Unless you thought someone else was in this room?" Alistair didn't come up with a witty response, which was a warning in and of itself, but he did finally enter the room and shut the door behind him. His cheeks were flaming red, and the papers that he held in his hands were crumpled, almost to the point of tearing. "What is it?"

"Duncan's letters," he said softly, sinking into the chair with a dull sound that made her wince, "These are— well, maybe I shouldn't have been reading them, but I—" She held out her hands, and he surrendered them. She smoothed them as best she could, and had read several lines when she glanced up at her comrade in alarm.

"These—"

"They're from someone named Fiona, at Weisshaupt," he explained, "There isn't much information to be had in them, but she did mention being Elven, and a mage, and a Warden, and— Orlesian." Lorelei blinked at him, stunned.

"Maybe Duncan mentioned you? He did seem rather fond of you."

"I thought that at first, too," he ran a hand through his hair and stared out the small window by her bed, "But the _date_ — it's before I was recruited. And there are other letters— earlier letters— that mention a boy in Redcliffe, right about when _I_ was—" he gestured with his hands, and Lorelei nodded, more in acknowledgement than any sort of agreement or understanding. "It's as if— as if Duncan was checking up on me, before— why would he _do_ that?" Lorelei frowned, having some trouble fitting the pieces together in her mind. "And who is this woman and why would she even _care_? In some letters, she even mentions King Maric, as if she _knew_ him!" Alistair jumped up from the chair and strode quickly the door, turned, and began pacing back and forth. He stopped suddenly and turned to her, eyes wide and dark in the moonlight streaming in through the window.

"Do you think that Eamon lied? I mean, about my mother?" The missing piece fell into place with a tinkling sound as Lorelei and Alistair had exactly the same thought: "Do you think that this Fiona person might actually be my mother?" Alistair sat back down, reaching out for the letters, which Lorelei carefully handed back to him.

"Lorelei," he said, voice barely above a whisper, "Lorelei, who _am_ I?"

* * *

She and Alistair stepped aside to let a servant— Elven, pretty, red-haired— pass them, and the girl approached them as if they were a gauntlet of untold horror. She looked like she might shake herself apart— and her many small braids right off her head— with her trembling, but she bowed her head and passed them, taking obvious pains to walk, not run. As she brushed past Lorelei, the mage noticed a sort of light in her eyes— a steely determination that suggested deep reserves of raw animal courage, in the face of what she instinctively recognised as a terrible fear.

The Elf paused, catching sight of the Grey Warden emblem that she and Alistair wore, and Lorelei had the impression of a complex calculation taking place as she contemplated the dangers of addressing a _shemlen_ overlord. Lorelei supposed that, of all the Grey Wardens in the Compound— all nine of them— she was probably the most approachable.

"Is there something I can do for you?" Lorelei asked the question carefully, aware that there was no proper way to phrase it and not seem threatening. There was something familiar about her features as she swallowed, shifted, and lifted her face to look Lorelei directly in the eyes.

"I had heard— I was wondering if you had news of my cousin," the words came out in a rush, and by the time her mind had parsed them properly, the Elven maid had already finished speaking, "My name is Shianni— Shianni Tabris." Alistair and Lorelei both started at the name— the former because he recognised the last name, the latter because she realised that she did, in fact, recognise both.

"You are Kallian's cousin, then." Shianni whirled, eyes flashing, and Lorelei actually took a step back in surprise. The Elf stared at her for what felt like a very long time, hope and fear and rage waging war on her face.

"You— know Kallian?"

"She fought alongside the Wardens against the darkspawn— against the Archdemon, actually," Alistair said helpfully, and Shianni jumped at his voice, then glared at him, as if unsure whether to attack or flee. Lorelei made a small gesture to Alistair; he nodded and fell silent.

"Kallian Tabris was part of a small party that faced the Archdemon in the final assault," Lorelei said evenly, "She was one of three that survived, the others being my comrade Sten, and— well, myself, in fact."

"Kallian is _alive_?" Shianni's pinched expression relaxed, and she suddenly looked years younger.

"I believe that she travels with the Dalish at present, but yes, she is very much alive, from what I have—" she ended her statement with a squawk, instead of the word 'heard', stumbling back and smacking against the wall, staff jamming into her back uncomfortably as the woman tackled her in a bruising hug that had all of her weight behind it. She was barely able to comprehend what had happened when Shianni had pulled away, mortified and teary-eyed. She was grateful that the Elf-girl was slight, or she'd probably have caused actual injury— and wouldn't _that_ be embarrassing?

"Oh Maker, I am so sorry, I didn't mean to— I just— oh _Maker_!" Shianni was breathing too fast and fumbling as she tried to help Lorelei up and straighten her robes all at once.

"It is fine," she said firmly, and Shianni became even more pale as she stared at Lorelei's hands, pushing her dishevelled hair behind her ears. That would serve her right, for wearing it loose.

"Oh _Maker_ , I thought you were an _Elf_. I'm so sorry, I—" Lorelei managed not to scowl at the comparison, though Alistair smirked— not unkindly, just like he was about to make an unfortunate quip.

"Shianni." The maid froze, staring up her with wide, wide eyes of a muddy green colour that was not unlike her own. "It is _fine_ , truly." Lorelei whispered a minor healing spell on herself, and then, after a brief hestitation, on Shianni, who straightened in surprise, embarrassment, and— indignation? Lorelei diffused it with a rushed introduction: "I am the Grey Warden Lorelei, and this is my brother Warden, Alistair. We are both honoured to meet you." Alistair bowed, and Shianni blushed pink as she curtsied.

" _You_? Honoured to meet _me_? You must be kidding me— you're the bloody _Hero of Ferelden_!" Lorelei didn't realise that skin could actually go that white, and for a moment, she feared for Shianni's health. Her fingers itched as she resisted the urge to cast a diagnostic spell.

"Bloodier some days than others," she answered, then winced at the Elf's disbelieving expression, "As you can see, I'm rather horrid at telling jokes, so... I am indeed honoured to meet you." Lorelei smiled, hoping that she looked just a bit more enigmatic than loony. Shianni's eyes narrowed, signalling that she'd failed miserably and Kallian's cousin thought she was one Archdemon short of a Blight— perhaps she even muttered something to that effect as she curtsied again and excused herself, rushing off to return to her duties, whatever they happened to be— and the thought of being _any_ Archdemons short of anything made her want laugh, though she couldn't quite find the words to explain _why_.

Then she noticed that Alistair was looking at her with some concern, and that it would not do to keep the Queen waiting when she herself had requested the meeting. She gestured for the templar-trained Warden to lead the way out of the Compound and to the Royal Palace, and he did so, albeit with obvious reluctance.

 _One Archdemon short of a Blight_. That shouldn't be particularly funny. Why was it so funny? The reason was there, just out of her reach before it slipped away, almost laughing at her. She was reminded, somewhat strangely, of Flemeth's laughter— low, menacing, and a touch mad— and she shuddered.

* * *

"And you— would renounce your claim and ask for nothing in return?" The Queen's face was artfully blank, but her stance was rigid with distrust and— perhaps shock. Alistair flinched away from her sharp, unbelieving scrutiny, still a bit of an innocent in a world where nothing was without price, and he shot Lorelei a look that begged her to save him. She shook her head; in this, Alistair had to speak for himself or not at all.

"I haven't really any claim to renounce," he said finally, shoulders drooping and back bending forward as if the words left him deflated, "That was all made _very_ clear to me, right from the start, and that's _fine_ — like I said before, your Majesty, _I don't want to be King_. I want no part of this—" he gestured wildly with his hands, "I'm happy as a Grey Warden. I _belong_ , and that's important to me."

"If you've no claim," Anora said carefully, "Why come to me at all?" Alistair looked up, meeting her keen gaze with an open, guileless expression that Lorelei couldn't imagine being faked— except perhaps by Leliana, and Alistair was no bard.

"There's been— some talk," he said haltingly, forcing himself straight, "I just wanted— I just wanted to make it clear, that's all. Maric's forgotten _bastard_ isn't trying to elevate his status." Both of the Queen's perfectly maintained eyebrows shot up at that, and when she spoke next, her voice was not without sympathy.

"Whatever you may believe," Anora said slowly, "You were never forgotten." She rose, and though there was a tiny wince, probably left over from the stress of the birth, it was clear that she was a graceful woman. Lorelei smiled at Alistair, and he smiled back weakly, until the rustle of paper startled them both. The Queen was holding a stack of bound volumes, lovingly wrapped and cared for. She crossed the room slowly and deposited the lot in his arms.

"These," she said softly, "Were King Maric's journals. My father— kept them for some time, though I do not believe that he ever actually read them. I—" she paused, and for a moment, Lorelei caught a glimpse of an uncertain young woman before the Queen once again asserted herself. "I _have_ read them, and so I know that while he was alive, King Maric thought of you often." There were no words for the look on Alistair's face, not even in Lorelei's mind, so she tried instead to burn the image into her brain.

"I—" Alistair swallowed thickly, then straightened, "I think there _is_ something that I want, your Majesty." The Queen started, but it was barely a ripple in the smooth wall that was her composure.

"Yes?"

"I would— really like to meet the princess. Just once, I mean, if that's okay." Alistair probably would have kept stumbling over himself if Anora hadn't held up a hand— much, much thinner than it had been before the birth of her child— and brought him to a red-faced, puppy-dog-eyed halt.

"I think," she said softly, "I think that can be arranged."

Alistair's smile was blinding, and Lorelei wondered if the Queen's smile wasn't warmer, just from exposure.


	15. Loyalty

"You are— Goldanna, right?" The disheveled washer woman looked up from the child she was trying to prevent from running out into the market, and the surprise on her face felt like an echo of her own. Lorelei used the pause in conversation to study the woman who was— according to what Eamon had told him— Alistair's sister. She was quite pretty, but something about her features— the shape of her eyes, the angle of her cheekbones, even the shape of her upper lip— made Lorelei think that there might be cause to take another, closer look into Redcliffe's affairs.

"I am Goldanna, yes..." Her voice was harsh when she answered, hinting at a history of shouting and alcohol, "Who are you and how do you know my name? What kind of tomfoolery is this? What would a fine citizen such as yourself want with me? Got a stain that fancy Grey Warden laundry can't get out?" Lorelei ignored the sneer on the woman's face in favour of appreciating the fact that whatever she was, the woman wasn't stupid. Supposedly brighter lights had missed the blatant Grey Warden emblem on her sash.

"What I would like," she said, careful to speak in a measured tone and keep all hints of emotion out of her tone— she did not want Goldanna to think that she was mocking her. "Is a few moments of your time."

"Time—" Goldanna spat the word out, and Lorelei thought she might be in for a thorough lecture until a wail rang out and the washer woman flinched. "I've got no time, Miss High-and-Mighty," she snapped, "My youngest is colicky, and—"

"I would be happy to take a look at your child," Lorelei said smoothly, falling into an area in which she was more comfortable, "I am a Healer, after all." Goldanna stared at her, mouth dropping open slightly as the rest of her protest fluttered away like leaves in a wind.

"I—" Goldanna was clearly at a loss for words, and it was only when the awkward silence was broken by another wail that the washer-woman-who-was-supposedly-Alistair's-half-sister stepped aside and let her pass into the house. It was small and cramped, and Lorelei counted four children of various ages in the tiny sitting room. A hush— save for the crying baby, who Goldanna went to fetch— fell over the other children as they stared up at her, wide-eyed and— Lorelei flinched when she realised this— afraid of the finely-clothed stranger.

"Are you a mage?" The oldest child, a girl on the edge of womanhood— younger than Alistair, older than Connor— asked boldly. She had a pinched look around her mouth and a bit of an odd jump to her step, as if her shoes were too tight. All the children were a shade too thin, as if food was hard to come by— and it would be, for Lorelei saw no signs of a father and the salary of a washer woman was hardly much.

"I am indeed."

"Mages are supposed to be scary," a boy— the very one who had tried to barrel past his mother at the door— pointed out helpfully, "You don't seem very scary."

"I am a healer," she said with a small smile, "It is a bit tricky to be a healer if you scare all your patients." She squatted to bring her eyes level with his.

"Ma said you were a Grey Warden," he insisted, lifting his chin, "Grey Wardens are scary."

"I can be scary, when I need to be," she admitted, "But I save most of that for darkspawn, not children. Ah," she straightened as Goldanna entered the room, looking like an animal caught in a hunter's snare and carrying a fussing child. She called up her magic, and noticed that Goldanna flinched— but then lifted her chin, as her son had done, and met Lorelei's eyes with a gaze that dared her to call her afraid. "It is a good thing that I came," she said, in her Healer's voice, "He had a fever, and that could have been dangerous if left too long."

"I don't have the money to call—" Lorelei held up a hand, and Goldanna's tirade stopped abruptly.

"I wasn't criticising you," she said evenly, "It looks like you do the best by your children that you can. In fact, I think it's remarkable."

"You're trying to butter me up," Goldanna hissed, clutching her child— now sleeping, thanks to Lorelei's simple spells— to her breast, "You think that I don't know that this tiny little hovel isn't enough for five children? I can't afford any better!" Lorelei didn't try to deny the accusation; instead, she turned away and examined each of the other children, two girls and three boys, including the baby— she found several minor ailments that magic quickly fixed, including what looked like a badly healed broken leg on the other boy, who looked like he might be a twin to the younger girl. Despite the patched clothes and obvious lack of food, they looked well-cared for, and were quite handsome children, fair and bright-eyed and sun-browned, save for the oldest, who looked like she carried the weight of all of Thedas on her thin shoulders. Her hands sported blisters that suggested that she had taken on many of the household chores while her mother worked to feed them all.

"What do you want?" Goldanna finally asked, and the venom in her voice had lessened in favour of confusion.

"I want to talk to you about Redcliffe," Lorelei answered, and she could almost count the woman's hackles as they rose, one by one. She pressed on, "One of my comrades— a friend— grew up there. He was told that his mother was a serving maid at Redcliffe castle who died giving birth to him."

"They told me that the babe had died, along with me mam," Goldanna was more confused than angry now, and Lorelei privately called that progress, "They told me that me mam was dead and then they ran me off with a coin and a box about me ears." Lorelei tried not to react visibly to the story; she didn't think that the woman would respond well if she thought she was being pitied. Goldanna stiffened, and Lorelei realised that she must have failed at hiding her sympathy. "I suppose he wants something from me," she said bitterly, "This man who claims to be my brother." Lorelei was already shaking her head. "Oh, don't tell me, he's a blooming saint," the washer woman continued, eyes narrowing as her anger resurfaced, "They're all the same— you're all the same, you all want one thing or another."

"Perhaps that is true," Lorelei didn't try to sound soothing, instead opting for the sharper tones of her I-am-a-Grey-Warden voice. It paid off, though the fact that someone would respond better to being treated harshly made her a bit sad. "What I want from you is the unvarnished truth, even if it's not pretty."

"And in return?"

"In return, nothing," Lorelei continued before Goldanna had a chance to interrupt and throw her out of her cramped— but very clean— house, "But the Grey Warden Compound is short on staff, and could use a competent housekeeper or laundress." She tilted her head, "If you weren't competent, you wouldn't have any customers at all, and even this small house would be beyond your reach. And as small and crowded as it is, your house is clean, and your children clothed and well-behaved, with no signs of any sort of abuse. I am honestly impressed." Goldanna stared at her, and Lorelei noted that she was twisting fistfuls of her skirt at her waist.

"You're— I don't believe you, Grey Warden." Lorelei wondered if it wasn't hope, flickering across the woman's face.

"I am not an accomplished liar," her hard tones were gone, now, as the washer woman stared at her with an expression that reminded her painfully of Alistair— not because she looked like him, but because of the raw, desperate need; she hid it behind anger and bitterness, rather than humour, but the need was the same.

"I—" Lorelei tried to smile reassuringly as Goldanna struggled, for the second time, to find her words.

"You don't need to say anything right now," she said smoothly, taking a few steps back towards the door, "If you want the job, ask for Warren at the Grey Warden Compound. I've already spoken to him about you; we have quarters set aside for you and for your children, and we're working on getting tutors for the servants' children." Lorelei was half-way to the door when Goldanna recovered.

"Wait," she said, and Lorelei turned, "Would you— stay for tea? I've nothing fancy, like you're used to, but—"

"I would be honoured," Lorelei said gravely, and the smile she found for Goldanna was not only easy, it was answered with one that, while small, looked like it might actually be genuine.

"That slimy, ungrateful little weasel!" Lorelei clasped her hands together in her lap and waited, trying to conceal her discomfort as the large man paced and ranted, flinging his arms about as if trying to find a neck to wring. Lorelei had to blink several times as his polished Orlesian armour threw the yellow light of the lamps and fire about the room, sometimes into her face.

"Loghain," Fergus's voice was the measured calm of a practiced speaker, and the much larger man paused in his tirade to glare at the Teyrn of Highever, nostrils flaring. He was clenching and unclenching his fists, but he held them firmly at his side, and Lorelei was vaguely impressed— his anger was a living, twisting thing, and she could almost feel it in the Fade. "We must discuss what will be done about this."

"I'll wring his neck myself!"

"Forgive me, your Grace— your Grace," she nodded to each Teyrn, noting Fergus's unrepentant grin just before it disappeared into a solemn expression, "What is the precedent? What proof do you need to try someone for treason? Is there any way to keep Alistair out of it?" Fergus was shaking his head, and was about to reply when Loghain spoke.

"So Eamon plans to use Maric's bastard to get to the throne, then?" Fergus, not having been informed but also not being stupid, pieced together the whole picture with admirable speed.

"Alistair," he whispered, and his eyes snared Lorelei's as surely as if they were a steel trap. A steel trap that captured eyes. Lorelei winced at the idiocy of the comparison, and was briefly relieved that she hadn't spoken it aloud. "That's the one you were telling me about, wasn't it? The one who was raised in the stables? Maker, that was Eamon?" Lorelei nodded curtly. "The King's son," Fergus mused, "What does he want?" Loghain had grown very still, and very cold, and Lorelei wondered, briefly, if he would flay her if she said the wrong thing now.

"Alistair has so rarely been asked what he wanted," Lorelei said slowly, "And by so few people, that even that bare consideration is a gift to him, as it is to me, since we share some similarities in background." She smiled, though it was more an expression of sadness than humour. She and Alistair may be more similar than perhaps than they'd ever realised, if this Orlesian Elf Mage was truly his mother. "I will not presume to speak for him, as so many have done, but— Alistair has told me many times that he has no interest in any titles at all, most especially prince or king. He was, and still is, horrified at Eamon's plans and wants no part of them. He has now told the Queen, twice, that he will happily step aside or actively renounce what he feels is a non-existant claim to— anything, really— in favour of her, and the Crown Princess."

"And still, Eamon persists," Fergus said softly, "Does he not care for his wishes at all?"

"Given the history of the situation," Lorelei snapped, "Decidedly not." Both Teyrns recoiled from her tone, though Loghain seemed much less surprised than Fergus, which made sense, since he'd seen her display some temper before. "Alistair is a means to an end for Eamon, not a person."

"It's that Orlesian harpy of a wife of his," Loghain asserted, and before Fergus could protest, Lorelei was shaking her head.

"My own opinion of Isolde not withstanding," she said, returning to calmer waters, as far as her temper was concerned, "I do not believe that she manipulates Eamon. In fact, I believe the opposite." Fergus blinked.

"You really don't like Eamon," he said, and she smiled, remembering the last person to use precisely those words and exactly that tone.

"I don't like Isolde," she admitted carefully, shifting slightly in her chair as her discomfort became close to overwhelming. Both Fergus and Loghain were looking at her, in the same way that would have meant a great deal of trouble to her in her life as an obedient, invisible Circle mage— and didn't mean much less in her current life as a Warden. "Forgive me, my Lords, but I think that I might actually be beginning to despise the good Arl Eamon Guerrin." Both sets of blue eyes narrowed, but it was Loghain who spoke first.

"There is something else, Warden," he said sharply— but not unkindly, though she still flinched from the tone. The fear of large, looming men in heavy armour was a deeply ingrained habit that would not be easy to shake.

"There is something else," she agreed, and then, realising that since she'd already accused the Arl of Redcliffe of High Treason, what she was about to suggest wasn't exactly slander, she pushed ahead. "There is this woman from Redcliffe, Goldanna..."

"I am not officially confining you to the grounds of the Compound," Warren said, addressing the handful of people who made up the Order of the Grey in Ferelden, "But it would be wise, I think, if none of us were to take any unnecessary trips into the city."

"So what trouble has the mage got us into this time?" Faren asked brightly, happily taking a sip from Oghren's flask before passing it to Anders, who, if he wasn't drunk, remained sober only with the help of a few discretely-cast healing spells. Warren frowned in their direction, and Lorelei wondered how he would address Oghren's alcoholism, and the effect that it had on discipline and morale.

"There are a few mages here, you know," Jowan pointed out, and Lorelei smiled. Though he still had lapses, the more-or-less reformed blood mage was beginning to grow more confident, and showing that he actually possessed a sharp tongue. Sarcasm suited Jowan far better than a petulant whine.

"Psssh," Oghren's words were slurred, and she was vaguely troubled that the rest of them were so used to his drunken drawl that they rarely had any trouble understanding what he said between belches, "It's clear who we mean. You and sparklefingers hardly ever amount to more than whinin— gaah!" He jumped, and glared at Anders as he rubbed his backside; the blonde healer smirked.

"Enough," Warren had clearly had enough of indulging them, and he glared at each of them in turn until they straightened in their seats— even Oghren seemed to settle, and Lorelei counted that as another mark in favour of putting the dark man in charge, no matter how much the First Warden in Weisshaupt still wanted them to submit to the charismatic command of Gerod Caron.

"Faren is— not exactly wrong," she said carefully, flinching slightly as every eye in the room was drawn toward her, "I am rather— involved, though I will say that I did not plan it that way. I would rather have handled it much more quietly. Sadly, the situation had too much potential for damage and had to be contained quickly."

"Lorelei acted upon my counsel and with my full support," Warren affirmed, "But there will be quite a lot of noise about the whole thing for some time; it is best if we do not add more fuel to the fire."

"So that bit about Grey Wardens being apolitical—"

"We do what we must," Warren said wryly, pausing after each of the last three words as if each was a sentence in its own right, "And we do not allow anything, even politics, to stand in the way of our goal. If we must engage political creatures, we must somehow play the same game— and win. We are here to battle the darkspawn, and help Ferelden deal with the aftermath of— what was, thanks to us— the shortest Blight in the history of Thedas." Faren had the bright idea to cheer, and while he, Oghren and Anders were the most enthusiastic participants, the others did join in with whoops and clapping.

"I never could have imagined any of this," Jowan admitted, and Lorelei and Alistair heartily agreed, while Anders let out a howl of laughter.

Yes, Anders was definitely drunk. She could tell by the look on Warren's face that he was not particularly pleased— with good reason, given that they'd all barely had breakfast.

"Alistair," he said calmly, eyes glittering with his own brand of mischief, "I would like you and Sten to practice some more in Templar talents today— Anders will be assisting you." Jowan caught Lorelei's eye, and mouthed 'laboratory'.

The laboratory had an excellent view of the practice grounds. Lorelei told herself, rather firmly, that Jowan intended to help to re-stock the Wardens' supply of restoration potions, and that he would not be spending any time at the window watching Anders get bowled over by Holy Smites from Sten and Alistair. Then she sighed. She had never been adept at lying, even to herself, and she rose, nodding to Warren, and gestured for Jowan to join her. When he did, she led them down the winding corridors towards the library, on the complete opposite end of the Compound from laboratory and practice grounds both.

"There is some research," she said, with exaggerated care, "That I need your help with."

"But—" Jowan deflated, sighing heavily, "I know that Anders is a Warden, and we're a team and all, but he's such an ass sometimes, and he keeps mumbling about blood magic when I'm around— and yes, I know that I deserve that, but still."

"You and Anders are far more alike than you are different," Lorelei pointed out, finding her patience easily, "You both felt trapped in the Circle, and you both fled it, and you are, as you said, both Grey Wardens."

"Yeah, but they were never going to make him Tranquil."

"I'm not sure that he realised that," Jowan blinked, then put the pieces together.

"You knew. You knew that they were planning to make me Tranquil— how long did you know?" Lorelei took a half-step back, then steeled herself. Jowan had made a lot of progress since joining the Grey Wardens, most especially since the death of the Archdemon; she hadn't quite realised how much progress until he'd returned, hopefully briefly, to his old petulance.

"Longer than that pretty little initiate did," she said softly, "They make most of the apprentices Tranquil, Jowan. Only the ones that stand out or endear themselves to either the Senior Mages— or in my case, the Knight-Commander— are allowed to attempt the Harrowing."

"But— Tomlin was taken for his Harrowing—" Jowan said haltingly, referencing an Elven apprentice who had disappeared from his bed one night, never to return. Most of the apprentices, apparently Jowan included, had assumed that he had failed his Harrowing.

"Tomlin was made Tranquil," Lorelei said flatly, "And sent, that very night, to Montsimmard, and perhaps from there, on to another Circle."

"You mean— how—" Jowan's face was contorted with emotion, and it looked like he couldn't quite decide between disbelief and rage. "Why?"

"For the same reason that they didn't tell you, early in your apprenticeship, that you were probably going to be made Tranquil," she snapped, "Andraste's mercy, Jowan, do you not see it? How well would you have behaved then? If the apprentices knew— the Rite of Annulment would have to be invoked every second Tuesday, just to keep order!"

"But why didn't you say something?"

"Because," she had to stop, then, realising that the word had come out as a snarl, and Jowan had taken a step back from her. She took several deep breaths, "Because I was afraid. Because I wouldn't have been believed. Because I was on that list right with you, Jowan. Maker's blood, I only avoided Tranquility because I was obedient, good with children, and not particularly good with my hands. If I'd had a gift for crafting like Naiose—" She pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes until they stopped burning, and when she looked at Jowan's face again, she witnessed the stirrings of understanding— and compassion— in his very striking silver eyes.

Such lovely eyes. Lorelei shivered at the reminder of Flemeth's visit to her in the Fade, and the unbelievable feeling of the Archdemon's soul passing through her, drawn to the Taint in her blood and then to the child created in Morrigan's ritual. Light, heat, pain as the pull of the Taint intensified, and an odd sort of peace as it settled into a distant melody. The hum of blood in her veins, the song of lyrium, the ever-present whispers of the Fade...

"Lorelei!" Jowan was shaking her, and she blinked up at him until he came into focus again.

"I'm sorry," she mumbled, willing her mutinous tongue to behave. Her words came out slurred, pressed together like rats huddled together in the walls of the upper levels of the Tower to survive the cold of altitude and cold lake winds and wayward ice spells. "I'm fine, Jowan, I just— got distracted." Jowan stared at her, and she was startled at the concern painted across his face.

"'Distracted' my pasty white ass," he snapped, and she winced, both at the edge in his voice and the imagery. "We're going to see Anders and Alistair and Warren, and we're going right now." He didn't waste time in dragging her back down the corridor, and when she stumbled, he looped her arm over his shoulders and half-led, half-carried her.

Lorelei didn't want to wake up. She didn't want the tingling of her leaden limbs to drag her out of rest that she had earned many times over. She was so tired that she couldn't remember her dreams— regular dreams where the spirit only skirted the other side of the Veil, passing through without disturbing it or becoming aware.

"Wakey wakey, eggs and bakey," Lorelei's eyes flew open and she launched herself backward, smacking into the wall beside her bed in an instinctual effort to put distance between herself and a possible threat. She winced, disentangled herself from her bedclothes, and blinked rapidly until her vision cleared, revealing a smirking Elven woman standing by her bed. "Shianni is right," Kallian mused, golden hair pale and shining as she stood directly in the sunlight pouring in through the window, "That is really fun."

"Surely you could have let me have a full nights' sleep," Lorelei groused, then paused, tired mind finally making the obvious connections. "Weren't you with the Dalish? Did you arrive during the night?"

"Lorelei," some of Kallian's sparkle dimmed, and a frown creased her pale forehead, "I arrived days ago; you've been asleep for over a week, save for brief moments when the other wardens came by to shove food down your throat."

"What?"

"Yeah, that's what I said, too, don't you worry," Kallian filled the room with chatter as she reached out and helped Lorelei regain her feet. There was some wobbling on both their parts, but they managed it. "Theron was here, but he left a few days ago for Kirkwall. The large tin-can with the missing finger went with him." Carver. Lorelei wanted to correct Kallian, re-assert Carver's identity somehow, but she was too tired to actually speak. "You should not be this tired. You were more lively after the Archdemon knocked us all on our asses."

"Not by much," she admitted, and she took a deep breath, bringing her— not insubstantial— focus to bear, and drawing, just a tiny bit, on the Fade. The power came in a rush, bounding into her reach like an excited puppy, and Lorelei reigned it in, just as Kallian withdrew with a curse.

"Could you warn me next time you want to turn into a lightning strike?"

"Sorry," she said absently, reaching out with her Fade-enhanced senses to check Kallian for injury. She found none, and released as much of the excess power as she could. It felt like a rush of cool air, and was gone.

"Okay," Kallian said slowly, "I fought by your side for long enough to know that this is not how your magic usually works." Lorelei blinked, tilted her head, then winced.

"That's— sort of why I was sleeping," she admitted, "We were— trying to find out what had changed, why I was different after I killed the Archdemon. There's no documented case of a Grey Warden surviving the final blow."

"Did you discover anything?" Lorelei held out her hands in a gesture of helplessness.

"Not enough for any kind of explanation. If we were on better terms with Weisshaupt, we might have written to them, but..." she shrugged, "The fact that I'm even alive is dangerous enough."

"Yeah, I don't think you turning in to some sort of super-mage would go over well." Lorelei flinched, then noticed the armour stand by her door— an armour stand that had not been there before, an armour stand that held up a remarkable set of armour. She stepped forward, brushing the tips of her fingers against the bright red— almost purple— leather, buffed and covered with silver-white detailing— engraved gryphons and dragons and runes and sigils. The patterns hummed as her skin brushed against them, and she drew her hand back as if burned.

"This is—"

"That's your new armour!" Kallian said brightly, and Lorelei stared at her in disbelief. "It's extremely lightweight for leather armour— it's mostly cloth, really, reinforced with leather— it's made for freedom of movement."

"But—"

"Warren had it commissioned some time ago, but the crafter is the sort that takes his time," Kallian continued blythely, either unaware of Lorelei's shock or unconcerned by it, "He said something about robes being fine for formal occasions, or even casual wear, but that a Grey Warden really should look the part, even if she is a mage. I think he's right, and besides, with that trick Neria taught you, it shouldn't be too hard to adapt."

"This is too much," Lorelei managed finally, noting that her voice sounded like she was choking on her own words.

"As if you're the only one he's got new equipment for," Kallian rolled her eyes dramatically, and Lorelei might have laughed, if she weren't still in a state of stunned disbelief. "It's expensive, I'll grant you, but it's good that he's taking advantage of the good will towards the Wardens while it lasts."

"I don't—"

"You don't know how to wear leather armour," Kallian supplied, and Lorelei gaped at her. "No, I didn't read your mind; that's actually why I'm here, right now. I'm supposed to show you how to put it on and take it off and keep it in good shape." Kallian's cornflower blue eyes narrowed as she studied Lorelei, "And you are so getting a hair cut." Lorelei's hands immediately went to her hair, as if to protect it.

"But I—"

"Oh come on. You killed a dragon and ended a Blight. You could use a new look and anyway— it'll be fun! It'll be a weight off your shoulders," Kallian grinned, and her teeth looked oddly sharp, "Literally."

Lorelei started when the man in strange, unfamiliar— and admittedly, magnificent— armour turned and revealed himself to be Alistair. He grinned, eyes sweeping over her as he stepped aside to grant her and Kallian entrance into Warren's crowded office. The Denerim-born Elven woman had been right: Warren had not limited his generosity to Lorelei.

While she studied the others present— Alistair, Sten, Jowan, Anders, and a strange, dark-haired man that she'd never met— and wondered why Oghren and Faren were absent, Lorelei found a seat beside Jowan, who grinned widely at her. He and Anders were also adorned in the same sort of hybrid cloth and leather armour as she; she noticed that most of the leather used appeared to be dark blue, rather than the deep purple— almost red— of her own set of leathers. She also noticed that while they all wore lyrium-engraved armour, only hers and Sten's, to a lesser extent, sported designs that featured gryphons and dragons— and Warren's alone, where it rested on the armour stand by his desk— featured the symbol of two gryphons: the symbol of the Warden-Commander. She turned to look at Kallian's fine leathers, clearly Dalish in design, and noticed that the lyrium-engraving on hers featured dragons and leaves and fire, but no gryphons. Then Warren answered her unspoken question.

"Yes, the lyrium-engravings do pay tribute to those who faced the Archdemon in the final battle," he drawled, and she closed her mouth and forced her eyes to his. "It was— an artistic decision of the armorer, and I decided that it was harmless to humour him." He tilted his head. "If you are all done gawking, we can get down to business." After a series of 'Yes, ser's and coughs and nods, Warren indicated the man that Lorelei didn't know, who rose from his chair and gave a low bow.

"This is Levi Dryden," Warren said smoothly, "Before the Blight, he sought my predecessor's advice and aid. If you would, Levi— tell us about Soldiers' Peak."

"I like your hair," Alistair said, and his cheeks were that shade of pink that could mean that he was embarrassed or that the air was chilly. Lorelei's hand went once again to her hair, or more accurately, what was left of it. The cut was uneven, and much shorter, meant to, as the hair stylist claimed, flatter her 'Elfin' features and look good even when ruffled by helms and sleep and rain and battle. She wasn't quite sure how she felt about it; it had that permanently disheveled look, and she had mixed feelings about emphasising anything 'Elfin' in her appearance.

"I— thank you, Kallian sort of insisted," she admitted, and Alistair glanced back at where said Elf was regaling her cousin with tales of the Dalish while Shianni tried to make some headway on her duties. Warren had, of course, offered her time off— with pay— to spend with the relative that had escaped a death sentence less than a year before, but Shianni had proudly refused, stating that she would earn every copper that he paid her.

"It's different, of course," he continued, "I was used to the braid— but it suits you, I think. The armour, too." She looked down at her hands as she slid them down her sides, as she would if she were smoothing the robes to which she was accustomed. The lyrium engravings reacted like static under her fingers— it was as if her magic was reacting to the enchantments on her armour. She frowned, putting this development away for later study.

"Do you know what happened to the others? Kallian told me that Theron and Carver went to Kirkwall, but I didn't see Oghren or Faren, either." Alistair made a face, though she got the impression that he was more amused than upset.

"Warren sent Oghren and Faren to liase with Orzammar," he explained, "To recruit, among other things. I think they went with a royal escort, actually." His gaze turned a little wary, and she braced herself. "I think we're being sent to Soldiers' Peak to get us out of the way."

"That's entirely likely," she tried to keep her tone neutral, but Alistair just looked at her, and she knew that he wasn't fooled. She sighed. "It is a bit of a mess."

"With Arl Eamon, yeah," he turned his face away, but kept his eyes on her, "His trial is in a couple days; they think that Teagan will arrive in Denerim sometime tomorrow."

"Which would explain why we're being sent north," Lorelei mused, "It's probably a good idea, honestly. It'll be nice to get away from— this—" she spread her hands out wide, and he nodded, catching her meaning with no effort at all, "Just for a little while."

"I know that it's probably for the best, but I'm— well, I'm worried. If it weren't for me—"

"Don't you dare," she said, and Alistair blinked, "Don't you dare try to put this on yourself, Alistair. Eamon is the one who started this, and I am the one that went to Fergus and Loghain."

"I—" he swallowed, and she realised that she'd stepped close to him again, and stepped back, "I'll try."

"Good," she said brightly— much too brightly. Alistair frowned.

"Are you all right?"

"I'm fine." He wasn't convinced; she could almost feel his Templar-senses tingling. "Until we find out what this is," she pulled the tiniest spark from the Fade, and it was like pulling a single drop from a raging river, "I'll manage. It's— strange, but I'm nothing if not controlled with my magic." Controlled, precise— it had been power and talent that she'd failed to display with any regularity, not discipline or skill. It had been this discipline and patience that had made her good at dealing with children, the untrained, terrified new arrivals. It had been the very reason that Greagoir had gone out of his way on her behalf.

Alistair was running his hand through his hair, "I'm just worried about you— you know that if you ever need— anything—"

"I do, Alistair. Thank you," she said, touched by the sentiment. Then she smiled; if he ever stopped being sentimental, he wouldn't be Alistair.

"So," he said, stretching the vowel playfully, "Let's go get out of the way."

"...And it is my hope that something remains at Soldiers' Peak that can restore my family's honour and reputation, once and for all." Lorelei pulled her cloak tighter, and studied the faces of her companions, lit from below by the small fire that sputtered and smoked despite their best efforts. When she looked up at Jowan, sitting directly across from her, his grey eyes locked on to hers and she felt the odd pull of kinship under the shared burden of power— power that could turn the struggling flame into a blazing font of light and warmth, power that could dry the damp on their skin and clothes— power that they dare not use for fear of attracting the wrong sort of attention.

They were under direct orders to be particularly careful with their powers— though the threat in the communications from Weisshaupt and the whispers passed between True Believers was vague, it too real to be ignored. The favour and popularity they had earned by ending the Blight was a fickle, perilous thing, and not to be depended on when it came to their safety.

Still, it was difficult to watch her companions shift uncomfortably in their sodden clothes and armour.

"Sod this," Kallian said finally, and she melted away from Lorelei's side, only to return with a small vial. "You'll all want to stand back, especially those that would like to maintain a particularly fashionable look— and don't look at the fire." No one that knew Kallian needed further explanation, and Lorelei wondered if the Elven girl enjoyed watching Jowan trip slightly in an effort to back away while Sten picked up a squawking Levi Dryden and carried him a good distance away from their pathetic attempt at a fire. Kallian smirked, shrugged, and then tossed the small, lightly glowing vial in a beautiful, perfect arc.

Levi made the mistake of watching it as it landed in the middle of the damp wood and rolled, sizzled, and popped— and when the fire exploded upward and outward with a series of blue-white sparks, he screamed. Lorelei felt tears sting her eyes as she forced herself to keep them closed and covered until the fire settled, pops and whistles fading into a more customary roar.

She found Levi bent over double, held up by Sten's strong arms as the Qunari glared down at the trembling man.

"He was warned," he growled.

"Levi, I need you to look at me." The response was something between a curse and a sob, and she had to listen for a few moments before she realised that it was a refusal. "Levi," she was trying not to sound exasperated, but when Levi refused again, Sten was the one whose patience ran out. He pulled Levi straight with large hands, and though it was obvious to Lorelei that he was doing his best to be gentle, the miserable merchant-who-was-also-part-of-a-disgraced-noble-family winced, though he would still not open his eyes. "Jowan, cool water— not cold— and a cloth." She had both in moments, and was pressing a wet cloth against Levi's closed eyes. He moaned with relief.

"Andraste's sodden small-clothes," Kallian hissed, "I told you not to look."

"Your eyes should be fine in a bit," Lorelei continued as if Kallian hadn't spoken, "But at some point I am going to have to look at them, just to make sure."

"At least we have an actual fire now," Kallian's voice began to retreat as she moved to tend the— now much larger— bonfire in the center of their little camp, though Lorelei still caught a few references to soiled undergarments and 'idiots who can't understand something simple like don't look'. It was hard not to smile, despite Levi's misery.

"Can you see anything? Levi, I need you to try to see." She pulled the cloth away, and the Dryden man blinked up at her with watery eyes.

"Sparks," he said finally, "You're surrounded by sparks, but I see you, Warden." She nodded, studying his eyes.

"They should start to fade," she explained, "But if you have any persistent bright or dark spots, let me know."

"I've never seen— anything like that," though he was still somewhat shaky, she could see that he was already beginning to return to himself.

"Kallian has a fascination for alchemical concoctions," she explained, "My own knowledge is more centred on healing herbs, for obvious reasons, but some of the combinations are actually rather surprising. I'd forgotten that she had one that could enhance a fire, even with soaked wood— but it's not exactly perfect. Usually she uses it in battle, as a bomb." At Levi's horrified expression, she clarified, "Against darkspawn, Levi. I am a Grey Warden."

"I might consider using something like it on any man that touches me without my permission," Kallian supplied, somewhat unhelpfully, and Levi's eyes grew round as sovereigns as he backed slowly away from Lorelei— more specifically, the pale elf that now stood beside her. Kallian tilted her head, as if thinking about her statement, and then added, "Or woman, actually. It's not as much the man part as it is the touching without permission." She bared her teeth, "I don't like being touched without permission."

"Kallian," the name, as Lorelei spoke it, came out almost like a sigh, "You've made your point."

"I came to let you know that the fire is safe now," Kallian said dryly, as if she hadn't just terrified the pants of Levi Dryden— and if Lorelei hadn't been beginning to doubt her own sanity, she should have been, because she could not bring herself to share in Levi's horror. It wasn't that she doubted any of the Elven woman's threats— quite the contrary, actually— but that it was Kallian; Lorelei was far more unnerved when she was solicitous than when she was prickly.

"Come on, Levi," Lorelei said finally, and with some hesitation, Levi allowed the two women to guide him back to his seat by the— now much warmer— fire.

"Now," she said briskly, "We should be clear about what we're looking for, with regard to the attempt to restore your family's honour," Levi straightened, "What is is that you wish to prove, exactly, Levi? Do you want to prove that Sophia Dryden was honourable, or that she was innocent?" He blinked, and she wondered if it was possible that this was a reaction to her question, as well as his injury. Jowan and Alistair traded glances, and she knew that they were considering the subtext of her inquiry. The history books said that Sophia Dryden had used her position as Warden-Commander to lead a rebellion in her own name against the then-King, Arland.

"Well— both, of course." Levi's confusion drew a slow, sad sigh out of her before she could stop it.

"I understand that your wish is the second," Lorelei said softly, "But you must realise that you may have to settle for the first— if that is even available." Levi's face twisted into an ugly, hurt expression.

"You don't believe me."

"I understand that history is written by the victor, and because of that, not always completely accurate," she said, making sure to use her most calm, measured tone, "But it is very rare that it is complete fabrication."

"But I— our family's belief that we were wronged— that is what gave us the strength to make something of ourselves."

"I'm not jumping to any conclusions just yet," she said quickly, holding her hands out in front of her like a peace offering, "I am just offering a bit of caution, should the truth be something other than what you want— because it often isn't what we want or hope. Being wronged doesn't always mean being right."

"I suppose you have a point," he admitted finally, and she left it at that.

"At least we have a fire now," Jowan said helpfully, and the mood lifted considerably when Levi, clearly recovering from his injury, was the first to laugh.

"That sword—" Sten flinched as if struck, and Lorelei stepped back, unsure of how she had caused offence, and how she could recover from it.

"It is— not Asala," he said finally, and the hand holding the sharpening stone paused, hovering just near the razor-sharp edge of the greatsword. "My sword was shattered during the battle with the dragon and could not be repaired."

"It looks a great deal like Asala," she flicked her fingers to indicate the familiar, foreign shape of the sword. If it weren't for the lyrium engraving and the dark red inlay near the hilt, she could have sworn that it was the slightly bluer twin of the sword recovered at Redcliffe.

"Your— our Commander took great pains to make it so," Sten admitted, and though he clearly mourned his old sword, he was not untouched by the gesture. "He told me that he even insisted that some of the material salvaged from the broken blade be used in the new one— he claimed that it was a tribute, of a sorts. He suggested that perhaps the two blades shared the same soul."

"That sounds like a lovely thought."

"I would have expected such sentiment from the bard." Lorelei flinched slightly at the mention of Leliana; Sten noticed, but said nothing, instead returning to his ritual of maintaining the perfect edge of his sword. "Still, I must admit that I appreciate the gesture."

"Warren is far more canny than he lets on, I think," she mused, and Sten laughed.

"You have a gift for understatement." The giant straightened, and she recognized the hard look on his face and the tightness in his stance. Battle ready. The Veil twisted and pulled around her, and she rocked back on her heels, reaching for the Fade with an ease that was still shocking.

Then they were both in motion, though Sten was quicker— he was shoving her out of the way and there was an arrow sprouting from his shoulder and everyone was suddenly there, moving, shouting, fighting, flashing brightly as she stepped into the Fade and they all dissolved into beings of light and spark.

The giant broke the arrow and pulled it out without a thought, but Lorelei noticed immediately that it had been poisoned— she was casting before Sten had time to so much as sway under its effects.

When it was over, their attackers were dead save for one.

He was Elven, golden-skinned, and very, very surprised; he was held at the points of Kallian's knives— one at his throat, one at his groin— and Lorelei had to admire his composure: he managed to look almost amused at his situation.

Sten growled, and Kallian's knives flashed in the firelight. Lorelei held up a hand, and the group around her formed an eerie tableau as they all stilled at her command. At her command— that still felt so strange! It felt as if they were all holding a collective breath.

"Alas, it appears that I have failed," the stranger said with a sigh, and Lorelei turned her head first one way and then the other, trying to place his accent. It gave her something to focus on other than the fact that this man— and several others— had attacked their camp and nearly killed Sten with a poisoned arrow that she was beginning to suspect had been meant for her, "At least if I am to die, it is at lovely hands." He twisted slightly, as if trying to get a look at Kallian, and the edge of her knife brushed against his throat, drawing a thin line of blood. Kallian cursed.

"Don't move! You die when she says you die," Kallian forced the words through bared teeth, and lifted her chin slightly as if to indicate Lorelei, "And not a moment before."

"Ah, but I can only be content, if my last moments are to be in such company." Lorelei folded her arms across her chest and resisted the urge to roll her eyes. "You mean to question me, do you not? Well, allow me to save you some time— my name is Zevran, Zevran Arainai. I am a member of the Antivan Crows, hired to kill the Grey Warden mage— but I was told only that you were a dangerous apostate, not that you were utterly gorgeous."

"Hired by whom?"

"Some stodgy priest or another," he shrugged, provoking another growl from Kallian. "I did not ask for a name, I must admit. They were very stern, very Orlesian, and— I like to think— secretly wicked."

"He's as bad as Anders," Jowan muttered, and the Elf perked up.

"This Anders sounds like an interesting fellow. I should like to meet him, should you allow me to live long enough to do so."

"And why should we? You just tried to kill us!" Alistair was overflowing with outrage, but despite his anger, she was glad of his solid presence at her side.

"I suppose it is too much to expect mercy? Forgiveness? No? Ah, tis a pity."

"What happens if we don't kill you? You try again?" Zevran made a face.

"Well, I already have a pretty good idea of how that would end," he said simply, "And having failed in my assignment, I cannot return to the Crows. No, I think perhaps that I could swear loyalty to you."

"What?" Alistair shouted, and Lorelei flinched from the loudness of it.

"You must think that we're royally stupid," Kallian snapped, and he made a sound that sounded almost like a laugh.

"I think that you are royally hard to kill, and utterly gorgeous." Kallian's response was a hiss.

"What sort of loyalty can a hired assassin offer?" Alistair made a sound of disbelief, but quieted when she raised her hand.

His answer was surprisingly solemn, "As I said, I cannot return to the Crows. They will know that I have failed, and kill me. I find, all of a sudden, that I do not particularly like that idea and so, since you are so very formidable, perhaps I can serve you instead." He tilted his head, "And as for loyalty— well, that is an interesting concept. I did not choose to join the Crows, and I swore no binding oaths of loyalty to those that want you dead. I am offering to swear one such to you."

"In exchange for...?"

"My life is not enough? Very well. You offer me protection from the Crows while I am in your service, and you have my oath of loyalty. I assure you that, despite my rather spectacular failure tonight, I am good for a multitude of uses."

"You can't possibly be considering—" But she was, and Alistair knew it; it was written all over his face, and probably hers. "You're insane."

"I agree," Sten's words seemed to rattle around in his chest before they emerged, dripping with disapproval, "Surely nothing that this man can offer is worth the risk."

As right as they probably were, Lorelei couldn't help but find herself drawn to the thwarted assassin and feeling a strange urge to take him up on his offer. Jowan was already muttering about her 'hero complex', whatever he meant by that, and Kallian was making snide remarks with her face alone.

Still, she stepped forward and held out her hand just as Zevran fell to his knees, having been rather roughly released from Kallian's hold.

"Ah," he said, staring up at her and then taking her hand, "I hereby swear my oath of loyalty to you, lovely Warden— from this day forth, I am your man, without reservation. This I do swear." He blinked as she sent a shock of magic through him, healing the shallow cuts on his throat and an impressive collection of bruises. "How shall I serve you first?" Lorelei rolled her eyes.

"You can tell me, Zevran Arainai, everything you know about who wants me dead— and why." She already had her suspicions, of course, but if there was even a nugget of new information that could be had, she would have it.

"Again," Lorelei groaned, and forced her arms back into position. Kallian bared her teeth in an expression that she suspected would look far more menacing were it aimed at anyone else.

"First the armour, now knives," she said softly, "What are you and Warren up to?"

"Why, the Commander and I?" Kallian twirled, as if dancing, and then struck so fast that Lorelei was barely able to jump back out of the way. "This was actually down to Neria and me— Warren just agreed."

"This is about that spirit— the one that taught Neria how to wear armour and wield a sword?"

"Yes, the Chantry will be quite upset about mages that can fight with more than magic," Kallian mused, forcing Lorelei back again. "But right now, this is about you."

"Me?"

"You're still too detached," Kallian scored a hit, and Lorelei bit back a cry, and forced herself to match the nimble Elf's stance and movements. "You still rely too much on others to do the actual fighting, to anticipate attack— but you can't afford to do that anymore. You can't step off into the Fade and forget everything else— it leaves you too vulnerable."

"She is right," Lorelei squeaked and leapt forward, away from the smooth voice suddenly at her elbow. She threw down her blades at the last second, and when she barrelled into Kallian, the Elven girl embraced her in— a sort of hug— as they fell to the ground. There was an odd, strangled gasp behind them and a flare of pain, and when she was able to disentangle herself from Kallian, Lorelei turned to find Zevran staring down at his chest, and the embellished hilt sticking out of it.

Kallian was cursing and holding the twin to the dagger piercing Zevran like he was an Elf-shaped pin-cushion.

"Kallian, hold him still," despite her shock, the Elven woman was there, holding Zevran's shoulders from behind. Lorelei felt strange as she wrapped her fingers around the hilt and met Zevran's gaze. The corners of his mouth turned up, and he looked like he was about to make some sort of joke, but instead of words, only a trickle of blood escaped from his lips. She forced herself to steady, and braced her other hand against his chest as she called up her magic. She had healed this sort of wound before, but it wasn't easy or painless.

"Still, Zevran," she said softly, "This will be— quite painful, I'm sorry." He coughed, then smiled. It was— uncomfortable— but Lorelei put it out of her mind as she took a deep breath to steady herself.

Then she pulled the dagger free and summoned her magic. Zevran's head fell back, his mouth open in a silent scream as his chest rapidly knit itself together.

"Your lovely companion has very good instincts," Zevran's delivery would have been perfect if not for the slight rasp on the harder sounds, and the little cough that he murdered deep in his throat. "I am surprised that you decided to heal such a well-deserved wound, especially since it must not have been easy."

"Must? You know that much about healing magics?"

"But of course! I know much about many things, most of them indecent." Lorelei sighed; Jowan had been right to make the comparison to Anders. Just as she was about to make an attempt to redirect the conversation away from such subjects, she caught a flicker of something on his face that gave her pause.

"Of course, I have never seen such a grievous wound healed so quickly," Zevran mused, drawing his fingertips across the fabric of the borrowed shirt— too big, for all that Jowan was hardly muscular— over the spot where Kallian's dagger had pierced his chest. "Nor have I seen one healed so completely. It is— intriguing, actually, since you were not described as having such a power." Lorelei folded her arms over her chest, and Zevran grinned, "Oh, you are a woman of mystery! I like it; it is quite sexy, after all." She flinched, and he arched an eyebrow at her.

"Do you always flirt so outrageously?" Zevran shrugged.

"Do you always react with such delicious modesty?"

"I imagine that it is quite useful to catch people off-guard, however one can," Lorelei shot back, instead of indulging her urge to flee. His response was to smile, slowly, and with as many teeth as he could manage.

"You are an astute one, Grey Warden."

"It almost balances my completely irrational need to save people."

"Your sarcastic friend is astute as well," Zevran drawled, and Lorelei almost started as she realised that he must have overheard the lecture that she'd been given the morning after she'd added the assassin to their group. "And quite handsome, in his own way. The Templar has a much more obvious appeal, but he has rather extraordinary eyes..."

"That sounds like a discussion that you should have with Jowan," she made a dismissive motion with her hand, "Do you have an actual question, Zevran?"

"Yes. Why such concern for my well-being?"

"Why not? You have sworn an oath of loyalty to me, have you not?"

"And you would take a creature such as me at his word?"

"If you were to break your word, Zevran, any one of my companions would end you without hesitation." Zevran inclined his head.

"I have noticed this," he was smiling again, "They are each very different from the others, and yet, they all share an extraordinary loyalty to you. I find this encouraging, considering the shape of my future."

"Loyalty goes both ways," she said softly, "If I can count on you, Zevran, than you can count on me and on mine. I will do everything in my power to protect you." He was blinking in surprise, and she smiled, knowing that it would prove to be a very rare thing, catching the trained assassin off-guard. Not being particularly skilled in the area, Lorelei imagined that it would probably never happen again. "Loyalty is gift and curse both, Zevran Arainai— I can hardly accept your oath and forget that it makes me responsible— for your safety, as well as any actions you take on my behalf."

"These are—"

"Yours."

"But—" Kallian had to take Lorelei's hands, one at a time, and close her fingers around the hilt of each of the daggers. They were, as her armour had been, heavily engraved and enchanted, the blue-white of the lyrium contrasting sharply with the deep red— almost black— of the material, which she suspected was dragonbone, specifically from the Archdemon-and-Old-God-that-was, Urthemiel. "I'm a mage."

Kallian grinned, and Lorelei frowned in response, wondering just how much enjoyment the snarky Elf was getting out of her discomfort.

"Yes, you are a mage." Lorelei blinked, and Kallian's smile only widened, a feat that should have been impossible, as far as she was concerned. "Neria learned a lot from that ancient spirit in the ruins, and she put it to good use— it's not just weilding weapons that is a lost art to mages, but making them; these daggers have been made for a mage— more specifically, you."

"But I can barely—"

"Yes, we're working on that, aren't we?" Kallian adjusted her arms, proving that she had been watching more than Lorelei's progress with daggers. "Here. Cast a— I don't know. One of those glowy ball things." Wisp. Kallian wanted her to summon a wisp, a simple spell that didn't take much in the way of gesture. When she moved to put down the daggers, the other woman made a clicking sound with her tongue. "No, channel it through the daggers," she said, then, laughing at Lorelei's expression, added, "Trust me."

So Lorelei reached into the Fade, and nearly dropped the daggers in shock as they sang, resonating with her power and with each other, channeling her spell better than any staff had ever channelled her magic. Three wisps flashed into being, and Alistair was approaching them quickly, concern written all over him, from his guarded stance to the frown on his face.

"It's fine," she answered, and dismissed the wisps with a flick of her wrist while she wondered how true her statement actually was.

If the Chantry weren't already contemplating an Exhalted March— and Lorelei was sure that someone in the organization was, if not the Divine herself— they would be when word got out about this. Magical prodigy that she was, Neria knew nothing of weaponscrafting; the mere existence of these daggers proved that the white-haired Elf had shared her knowledge with the Dalish— who would have promptly shared such a treasure across all the clans. This wasn't just enchantment— the weapons themselves had been forged with magic, and with magic in mind.

The Chantry hated that the Dalish had free mages. If they learned that the Dalish had free mages who could wear armour and use weapons— most especially extraordinary weapons such as these...

"Kali," she said softly, and the unrepentant grin disappeared as the golden-haired knife-fighter picked up on her newly solemn mood, "Do you realise what this means? For mages, for the Dalish, all of it?"

"It means that we've recovered a piece of ancient Elven history," she said flatly, and Lorelei shook her head.

"It means war," Kallian flinched from the statement; Lorelei hated it also, but she pushed anyway, "Maybe not now, but eventually— when this gets out, Kallian, this means war, between Humans and Elves, mages and Chantry— 'believers' and 'non-believers'." The look on Kallian's face and the sound of footsteps— cautious, and unused to wearing leather armour— announced Jowan before he spoke.

"That's going to happen anyway," he said softly, and when she turned to look at him, he looked almost as sad as she felt. "Maybe it just means that it'll happen sooner, with both sides more evenly matched." He paused, then looked away. "I was jealous, before— even Warren said that you had the luck of Andraste— but I'm not now. I'm beginning to wonder if Andraste's luck was all that great, after all. I mean, she did die in the end, and rather horribly."

"I do know the story, Jowan," she said, unable to prevent the sharp edge to her voice. Jowan winced, and she looked down at her hands— and at the incredible daggers that they held— and then back up at her friend.

"I— of course, I'm sorry."

"All right," she turned to Kallian, whose attitude had not softened nearly as much towards Jowan as it had towards Lorelei, "I suppose that these came with sheaths that I should learn how to—" she pretended to holster the knives at her waist, and Kallian nodded and took the daggers back, producing a small, slightly strange harness that wrapped around the middle, then across the shoulders and back. As she began to demonstrate its application, Jowan caught the wordless dismissal and disappeared without further comment.

"I wanted to thank you," Alistair said finally, having fidgeted throughout their shared watch until the basic patrols had come up empty, "For what you did for Goldanna, and her children, even if she's not— even if she's not really my sister."

"It was no trouble," Lorelei shrugged, not entirely comfortable with gratitude— or the topic of Goldanna or her mother. Her discussions with the haggardly washer-woman had turned up several troubling facts and Lorelei had welcomed the opportunity to turn her mind away from the direction that those facts lead.

"I just— I'm glad that she's well, and that her children are being cared for."

"They were cared for before," Lorelei said pointedly, remembering how touchy Goldanna had been on that point, "But yes, I imagine that it is a bit easier for them now."

"Five children," Alistair mused, almost dreamily, "If she were my sister, I'd be their uncle. I wish that she were my sister, now." He shifted beside her, and she knew that he had turned towards her but she refused to look at him, expose herself to the hopeful look that he wore. "Are you sure—"

"Goldanna was run off before you arrived at Redcliffe," she said softly, "When you showed me that journal of Maric's— I'm sorry, Alistair, but the dates make too much sense. Goldanna's brother died with her mother, and— he was not Maric's son." Alistair let out a disappointed huff.

"I know," he admitted, "I just thought—" They'd gone over this at the Compound, as soon as she'd confirmed that Goldanna would be coming to work for the Grey Wardens. "I always wanted a family."

"The Grey Wardens are— sort of a family," she said, wincing as she remembered just how fractured a family they were, when looked at as a whole, "And you do have a neice." He brightened at the mention of the princess, and Lorelei smiled with relief.

"Anora said that she wouldn't mind my visiting once in a while," he said softly, "I was— really surprised. She's much nicer than I thought."

"Anora or Deirdre?" He made a face at her, and she laughed.

"She was so— cool, before."

"She thought that you were a threat to her crown," Lorelei reminded her, and he winced. "Once it was made clear that you were not seeking to displace her— well, it is difficult to dislike you, Alistair, and very easy to care for you."

"Is it?" There it was again— that bright, burning need— and it took a substantial effort not to recoil. It was frightening to think too long about Alistair's feelings for her, and the dependance that he had on her approval. He'd come a long, long way, but he still reminded her of a puppy, sometimes.

"Yes," she said it as firmly as she could manage, and pressed her palm against his arm. "Yes, Alistair, it is." He took hold of her wrist and held her hand in both of his own, taking such care that Lorelei wondered if he thought her made of glass. He looked at her, and his expression was one of wide-eyed, child-like awe.

Then he smiled, and her chest suddenly felt tight and bereft of air. She had always figured that his fascination with her would fade, as most infatuations did, but now she found herself wondering if it really was just an infatuation, or something else entirely.

For the first time, she allowed herself to actually consider the possibility that Alistair's feelings for her ran deeper than just admiration and respect— and that perhaps— perhaps, her own feelings echoed them. Did she— was she in love with Alistair? It was one of the most terrifying questions that she'd ever asked, and despite her best efforts, she could not help but shy away from the answer, and all the consequences it would bring with it.


	16. Resistance

"You are something of an enigma, my dear Warden," Lorelei went very still as Zevran sat down beside her, not close enough for it to be outright intimate, but close enough to make her uncomfortable. "The Antivan Crows are not often so misinformed about their targets." For all that she was beginning to _like_ Zevran, he made her nervous— Jowan had made a remark about it being her sense of self-preservation, still vocal despite her best efforts to shred it to nothing. Sten had agreed, with all the stoic irony that the violet-eyed giant could bring to bear.

"And _you_ are not the open book that you claim to be, Zevran Arainai," she shot back, and he put one hand over his heart and adopted a wounded expression; it might even have been believeable, if not for the spark of— something else, perhaps curiosity— behind his eyes, and the creases of humour at the corners. "I propose a trade," she said softly, sweeping her eyes over the flickering edge of the circle of light cast by the fire, and the darkness beyond. "A question for a question, an answer for an answer." She felt the tug at the corners of her lips as the turn of phrase reminded her of Daylen Amell, of all people— the more dramatic, charming of Irving's pet apprentices had enjoyed what he thought was a clever turn of phrase almost as much as he'd enjoyed praise and attention.

"Oh? This is a generous offer indeed," he stretched out the last syllable in a way that was almost painfully reminiscent of Alistair's teasing tones, though she figured that Zevran was far more skilled at that art— among others— than the frequently flustered, templar-trained Warden.

"Not particularly," she admitted, "I'm not promising to answer unreservedly, nor do I expect such a promise from you."

"So this is— a game, of sorts, to pass the long, lonely night ahead of us," he drawled, "I can think of better, lovely Warden." Lorelei rolled her eyes.

"I'm sure," she said dryly, "How common is it for the Antivan Crows to accept contracts on Grey Wardens?"

"You waste no time," Zevran said, "I _like_ that in a woman. It is a pity that you are— so restrained. However," He winced, then, and turned his face away from her as he answered, "No, it is not common. It is considered— somewhat impolitic— to act against members of your order."

"Hm." Lorelei forced herself still, holding back the question that followed naturally as she remembered that it was the assassin's turn to ask a question.

"Ah, it is my turn, yes?" She nodded, and he grinned, gaze sweeping over her with enough heat to make her blush— but not enough to distract her from his changed expression. "It was said that you possess— somewhat scandalous origins. Is this true?"

"It is," despite how often she'd spoken of her origins, it was still a difficult story to tell. She used the most bland tone that she could summon, and watched Zevran's eyebrows twitch ever higher as she spoke, "My father was a mage— I do not know if he still lives, though I imagine that he must, as he was made Tranquil, and Tranquil mages are not usually killed, not even during the Rite of Annulment— and my mother was a Chantry initiate, both of the Circle of Magi in Montsimmard. That's scandalous in an of itself, of course, but add to that that my father was Elven— and that my mother was half-Elven herself, to a Dalish woman who killed herself rather than face the shame of being forced to bear the child of the Orlesian Chevalier who forced himself upon her— and 'scandalous' seems rather too mild a word to use."

"That is— you're right, it _is_ somewhat beyond scandalous," he said finally, with an awed tone of voice that would have made her feel filthy, if not for the odd flash of— a kind of sympathy— that flickered briefly across his face before his customary mask of affable lecher. "My mother was Dalish. They are a proud people, who refuse to bow to defeat."

"They are," Lorelei agreed, allowing herself a small smile as she thought of Theron, then the Keeper Lanaya and her clan, who had taken Neria as one of their own without the barest hesitation— and had even offered Lorelei a place among them, though she knew that the offer was prompted more by her magic than any errant Elven blood she possessed.

"Then again, she was also a whore, I imagine that she did quite a bit more bowing than the typical Dalish." Lorelei flinched, wishing that the assassin had not felt the need to elaborate upon his mother's sad circumstance. "Ah, but it is, once again, your turn," Zevran's drawl drew her out of her thoughts, and she asked the obvious question.

"Why did you take the contract on me?"

"Oh, you insist on asking the _boring_ questions, don't you?"

"I'm a practical girl," she bared her teeth; it wasn't quite a snarl, but it was in no way a smile.

"So you are," Zevran said softly, and Lorelei was sure that his mask slipped, just a little— and what it revealed was a profound combination of sadness and pain that left her gaping— and then he smiled, and all signs that he was anything more than what he appeared melted away in the soft, warm light of the fire. As if to form another defense against her, he turned his face away, leaving her with an outline of his profile in place of readable expression. "Perhaps I was bored," he said finally, and Lorelei bit the inside of her cheek as _something_ about the way he spoke scraped through his teeth and tore at something inside her, its passage like a rough-edged rock dragging against her skin. "Perhaps I sought a greater challenge." She stared at him, willing him to turn his face back towards her, and when he did, she recoiled from the pain that she saw there.

It was gone so fast that she forced herself to consider it possible that she'd imagined it, but her feelings persisted, insisted, and she was surer of her first impression than she was of the content of the Canticle of Transfigurations— and while _every_ mage within Chantry control knew the Canticle of Transfigurations, she'd memorised the entire Chant of Light before her magic had been discovered.

Zevran Arainai was evading her question— and struggling to hide an agony somehow related to its answer. She knew that it was probably idiotic, but she found herself unwilling to push further, and silence fell upon them, stretching into something oppressive and tragic and bigger than them both. Despite how awkward she felt, she could not bring herself to break it, and she sensed, somehow, that Zevran felt the same.

Somewhat uncharacteristically, the Elven assassin said nothing until Alistair and Jowan came to relieve them at the end of their watch, at which point, he slipped back into his flirting, smirking, blush-inducing ways with only the smallest twitches of his fingers, and at the corners of his eyes and mouth.

* * *

"Levi, we need to stop and rest," as if to prove Alistair's point, their guide stumbled, and reached for the side of the cave to steady himself. The rock came away from the wall and Levi cried out, and would have fallen, had Zevran not caught him.

"We must keep moving," he hissed, and Lorelei grew uneasy as she drew closer to inspect his wound. Levi's eyes were wide and red-rimmed when he looked up at her; the dim, white-green light of her summoned spirit wisps giving his features an eerie, sickly cast. He was still muttering how they had to move on, though he was clearly spent. It came across as mostly gibberish, but when Levi mentioned being shown the way in his dreams, Lorelei stiffened, locking eyes with an equally distressed Jowan. Zevran had lowered Levi into a seated position, and Lorelei knelt down in front of him, and took a slow, deep breath before she reached for the buzzing, singing brightness that was the Fade.

It came in a rush, and the transition was _easy_ ; whereas generally crossing the Veil was a jarring experience— a reminder that one was crossing from a world where one belonged to one where one most certainly did not— this time, passing into the Fade was like taking a step, as if there was no Veil at all. _No Veil at all._

She blinked at _that_ troubling thought, and focussed instead on Levi, and the thin, ghostly tendrils of magical influence that bound him to some unseen mind like strings, guiding the movement of a puppet. As she studied them, she felt a flicker of anger at being manipulated both by and through Levi, and at the abuse that he was suffering, drawn ever onward towards Soldiers' Peak for a purpose of which none of them was aware. They wavered, and Lorelei had the sudden, unsettling feeling of being _noticed_ , and the familiar fear that went along with it.

She pushed it down, fanning her anger until it was sufficient enough to distract her from the prickly feeling of being watched, from the fear of whatever had its fingers in Levi's mind. It was possible, she knew, to manipulate the thoughts and dreams of another through blood magic, but the mage behind the spell had to remain close to the target. From such a distance—

Cutting the tendrils attached to Levi's Fade-self was easy— and that _ease_ still troubled her— and when she brought her mind back to where the group had gathered around her, she was still standing, at the centre of a circle of blue-white light that was forcing her companions to shield their eyes. She dampened it immediately and dismissed the wisps, leaving them with the far-from-adequate light of Sten's torch.

"Alistair," she said, and her voice was raspy, like she was trying to run and speak at the same time, "Can you— do you think that something is wrong with the Veil here?"

"What do you—" his eyes widened as he tapped into his templar-trained senses and felt for the Veil, finding nothing. There was a loud gasp behind her as Jowan made the logical leap and reached for the Fade, finding, as Lorelei had, no buzzing resistance in the transition from thought to spell. "Maker's breath."

"Levi's right," she said finally, forcing the words through her teeth, "We need to keep moving— either forward or back. It is dangerous to linger where the Veil is so thin."

" _Thin_ ," Jowan hissed, "It's not thin, it's— torn. Shredded, even."

"What does that mean?" Levi was still trying to shake himself free of the confusion caused by the combination of magical manipulation and near-complete exhaustion. The man was a merchant and a seasoned traveller, but he was accustomed to making his journeys by waggon or horse, and on proper roads, not scrambling through treacherous tunnels on foot. He was likely not used to such a pace, either, and she wondered at her own endurance. She would never have dreamed that walking up and down the stairs of the Circle Tower would prepare her for criss-crossing Ferelden on foot, stopping here and there to fight men and monsters both.

"It means," she said softly, carefully, as not to startle anyone, "That this mission is not so simple as we thought, and that perhaps— perhaps you will like what we find at Soldiers' Peak even less than I imagined."

* * *

"So _what_ , exactly," Levi forced the words out between ragged pulls of air, curiosity winning over practicality, "Is the Veil? And what would cause it to be destroyed?"

"You've heard of the Veil, of course," Jowan sounded half-confused, half-appalled in the face of such ignorance, and Sten grunted, causing the second-smallest Warden to stumble slightly as he turned his head towards the sound.

"I am also— curious," Sten's voice, so much deeper than those of the others, echoed around behind them as they drew closer to the end of the tunnel. They did not need the torches, now, and the thinner air of higher altitudes chilled the sweat on their bodies and drove them to take large gulps of air that was fresh and cold, rather than stale and heated. "Though I expect that the telling will be heavily influenced by your Chantry's views."

"The Veil divides this world— our flesh-and-blood world— from the Fade, which is said to belong to the spirits," Lorelei paused as Zevran and Alistair reached the ragged-edged oval that was the exit from the damp, dark tunnel, and the former whistled sharply. She tilted her head, then continued, taking special care with where she placed her feet. "It isn't as simple as that, of course, but the image of a curtain is probably the closest that we can come to describing it. It serves as a barrier, a border of sorts, making it difficult to cross from one side into the other. It is said that all but Dwarves and Tranquil cross the Veil in their dreams, but only mages are capable of being aware while in the Fade. To cross intentionally is— a difficult thing that takes a great deal of power and concentration."

"Except for you," Jowan pointed out, and Lorelei sighed.

"Yes," she admitted, and Levi's eyes widened at that revelation, "It is a rare thing, but some mages can cross over into the Fade much more easily, and I am such a one."

"So you can just— disappear into the Fade?" Lorelei was shaking her head.

"I can send my spirit into the Fade," she corrected, "My body remains, and before it would collapse without my spirit to guide it— as if I had suddenly fallen asleep. I have recently found it easier to maintain a basic level of awareness when I cross over, but it is— tricky. To completely, physically cross into the Fade— well. That is what the Tevinter magisters are rumoured to have done, with rather horrible results."

"The First Blight," Levi breathed, and she nodded. "So this Veil keeps us regular folk safe from demons." She nodded again, albeit with a wince at the reference to the general population's fear of mages. "So what could destroy it?"

"A lot of powerful magic, or many deaths, generally," Jowan supplied, "The Veil shifts, and even tears, allowing spirits or power across, one way or the other."

"Whenever a mage weaves a spell," Lorelei added, "Or whenever the spirit leaves the body— to dream, or even to die— the Veil is— opened, somehow, to allow it. It generally repairs itself with time— the more significant the tear, the more time it takes to heal. If too many spells are cast at once, or too many people die, the Veil is torn beyond its ability to repair itself, and can remain sundered for some time— years, even." She frowned, then, doing the math, "But it has been a very long time since anyone has even _been_ here. In the absence of further influence, it should have repaired itself by now."

"What does that mean, then?"

"It means that someone— or something— has kept the Veil open."

* * *

They reached the last bit of the tunnel, and Lorelei blinked; the sunlight was near blinding. They had spent the better part of a day and an entire night traversing the tunnels, emerging close to midday.

The fortress of Soldiers' Peak was massive, and clearly of good design, for despite two centuries of neglect, it was still standing, and in passable condition. The mountains loomed up around it, and the landscape was dotted here and there with large pines, bathed in snow that ranged in depth from inches to half and again her height— or even Sten's. Great steps lead up to what she imagined to be a large, stone-paved area, and large stone archwayes indicated an entrance into a courtyard or garden.

Kallian was still at her side, and Lorelei could feel her narrow-eyed stare even though it was directed away from her and at the strange, abandoned keep. Behind her, Sten was stiff and wary.

"There's something moving in the courtyard," Kallian said softly, reaching out to stop Zevran from scouting ahead.

"Nothing lives at Soldiers' Peak," Levi protested, and squeaked as the massive, bronzed hand of a very annoyed Qunari landed on his shoulder.

"You have been here before," Lorelei said softly— sadly— and Levi fell all over himself trying to explain. "We would still have helped you if you'd told us what we were facing, Levi." The man blinked, and after a swift shake, Sten let him go; he staggered for a few moments before he straightened.

"I never actually went in," he admitted finally, "I just felt— this— _presence_ , and knew that I needed to get help. The Wardens own this Keep, and I thought—"

"Well," Alistair grinned as he shrugged his sheild into place and drew his sword; it rang as it came free of its scabbard, and it was almost like a battle-cry, it was so loud in the bright, eerily-quiet— grove of sorts, she supposed. "It's a good thing that Warren sent two mages and a templar, isn't it? Well, sort of a templar. Well, two sort-of templars, really, since I showed Sten—"

"Enough," the Qunari exclaimed, and as he brought his sword forth, Alistair cringed slightly, as if he thought himself the giant's target, "It will be good to face an enemy again, even if it is—" Sten made a face, and Lorelei almost laughed, his meaning was so clear. The giant still hated magic, that was plain, but he was not as surprised by or frightened of it as he had once been.

"We'll approach slowly," she said, and as their eyes turned to her, she had that feeling of _being in command_ again, though it did not make her as uneasy as it once had. "If there's an opportunity to pick them off with spells or bombs," she nodded to Kallian, who grinned widely, "Then we'll take it. We're not entirely sure what awaits us, so— let us be cautious, yes?" Zevran tilted his face to one side as he watched her with obvious amusement, and she realised that she'd slipped back into her native accent— it was slight, but anyone with an ear for accents _would_ notice, as he had.

But it was time to approach a battle, not think about accents, so Lorelei jerked her head toward the keep, and they moved forward.

* * *

"A fine tactic," Zevran drawled, and Jowan stiffened, "Provided it actually kills them and we don't end up having to deal with _flaming_ undead." The supposedly inept— Lorelei wasn't quite ready to accept that particular judgement just yet— assassin's mouth twisted slightly at the idea of _killing_ the already dead. Levi Dryden's knuckles went white as he grasped his bow— the man was terrified, but unwilling to stay behind. Against her better judgement, she'd allowed him to continue on with them, but only after he'd told them _everything_ that he knew about Soldiers' Peak, including the dreams that had drawn him there and the sinister force that always sent him skittering back through the passage, eventually driving him to seek the help of the Grey Wardens.

"Do you have a better idea?" Jowan snapped.

"Must we waste time?" Sten's disapproval was evident in the growl that rumbled in his chest, held back only by inches, "We have fought such creatures before— the direct approach was sufficient then."

"So we scale the stairs and fall into the standard formation," Alistair hardly noticed the Qunari's grunt of approval, and something about made Lorelei feel vaguely proud.

"Why scale the stairs at all?" Zevran was smiling as he spoke, "If these— creatures— are as slow and clumsy as you say..." Kallian let out a sharp (and slightly shrill) noise through her teeth, and Lorelei recognised it as laughter just as the nature of Zevran's suggestion became clear to her. She closed her eyes and— very, very carefully— peeked through the sundered Veil and into the Fade and sent small seeking fingers of magic outward, towards the haunted courtyard. Her answer was the flare of flames and the taste of ashes on her tongue, and a flash of— surprise, curiosity— that was much further away but still immensely troubling.

"Hunger and rage," she said softly, answering Alistair's unspoken question and ignoring Zevran's naked interest. "Desire too, I think, but further back. Jowan, Levi and Zevran are on archers, Sten and Alistair are on point, and Kallian—" the pale Elf flashed her lovely, yet slightly feral, grin, "Do your thing. I'll— well, I'll do mine, I guess." She could _see_ Sten's sigh— the lift and fall of his shoulders, and the movement of his head from side to side— and she wondered at how she never took his disapproval as an insult. Whatever his opinions of women and mages, she knew that Sten respected and trusted her (and wasn't _that_ the most incredible thing) and she could hardly fault him for those moments where he wondered _why_ , especially since she spent a lot of time wondering why herself.

Too much time, she realised, as the— sadly familiar— smell of rotting flesh rolled over her, dragging her from her ill-timed reverie. She stepped forward, tracing the sigils and swirling lines of a spell that she'd practiced many times at the Tower, but never had quite enough power to pull off as an Apprentice or junior Mage.

She looked up just in time for the moaning, shuffling corpses to reach the top of the stairs, and released the spell just as the second line of undead passed the threshold of the first step, and they froze solid just before tumbling down after— and into— their fellows. The brittle corpses shattered and splintered as they hit the stone steps, doing as much damage to the moaning, shifting undead behind them as they did to the ones before them. The undead speared themselves on the sharp-edged pieces of their brethren and slipped on the ice that now slicked the stairs. The few that made it to the bottom were quickly— almost comically so— dispatched by Sten and Alistair, leaving Kallian, Jowan and Zevran free to harry the few archers that sent poorly-aimed arrows in her direction. She often felt as if their enemies knew, somehow, that she was the only capable healer in the group, and targeted her because of that. Jowan was passable at small healing spells, but they were beginning to discover his true talents, and they lay elsewhere.

She made her way to the foot of the stairs, and when she stood between Alistair and Sten, she pushed forward, first with a fire spell that turned any remaining ice or water to steam, then with a force spell that threw any remaining corpses backward— including the archers at the top, she noted with some satisfaction— and quashed any lingering flames, clearing the way for them to scale the stairs and face the rest of the demon-possessed corpses with the more direct approach that Sten favoured, without the _flaming undead_ over which Zevran had expressed concern.

There were two more waves of slow, stupid undead, and Sten seemed almost gleeful— at least, as close as the stoic warrior ever got to gleeful— as he cut through the shambling creatures like a farmer harvesting wheat. Kallian, too, seemed almost reckless as she cut her own swath, sometimes moving so quickly that she was a blur. She used her daggers as if they were extensions of her own body, and once again displayed that happy sort of grace that marked her immediately as a natural fighter— or dancer. Lorelei heard Jowan's sharp intake of breath as the lithe young woman all but beheaded one moaning corpse and planted her foot firmly on its chest, using it to launch herself into the air even as it collapsed to the ground. She landed square on the head of another, then jumped aside as Sten's blade came down, disappearing and then coming up spinning, like a windstorm, sending bits of rotting flesh flying as she literally cut through the rapidly dissembling crowd.

Zevran and Alistair were more cautious in their approach, taking advantage of Jowan's rapid-fire hexes and elemental spells— mostly earth and lightning spells, even though Jowan was partial to fire— allowing them to cut through large numbers of corpses while they still protected their flank— and their mages.

"Holy Maker, what is _that_?" Zevran's shout drew Lorelei's attention to a tall, armoured figure approaching just as the last of the practically mindless corpses were cut down by blades and spells, and Lorelei's breath caught, just for the tiniest moment, as she remembered how close she'd come to death the last time she'd faced a Revenant.

Struck by a particularly perverse instinct, Lorelei cast a haste spell on Kallian, and watched as she went from blur to spark and drew the sinister attention of the creature. Lorelei watched as it— one of the exceptions to the 'undead are stupid' rule— stepped back from a flurry of quick strikes from the small elf and made a few attempts to catch the annoying, shiny creature. It let out a roar of frustration as Kallian danced out of its reach, then threw its arms wide; Lorelei knew that it would use its power to draw the quick Elf to it like a fish on a line, as its cousin in Redcliffe had done to her.

Or it would have, were it not suddenly split diagonally from shoulder to waist as Sten struck from behind, dragging his shiny re-forged sword through rotted flesh and armour both. For all that revenants possessed far more intelligence than their lesser brethren, they could, as they had now proven, be distracted by something quick or shiny and end up ignoring the real threat— in this case, an angry Qunari with a greatsword.

The group drew together, facing the entrance to the Keep— once great wooden doors looked to have been splintered by a ram of some sort, and their rotting remnants hung at the sides of the doorframe, almost like drapes made of splinters. Lorelei took a few stunned steps back, drawing concerned glances from her comrades.

The Veil was more than sundered, here— the Fade felt like the choppy, dangerous waters of Lake Calenhad, undulating beneath a raging storm. She'd read of creatures that revelled in the places where the Veil was thin or torn, and endeavoured to maintain and even widen the rift that allowed them passage into the realm of mortals. She'd known, intellectually, that they would find a creature of this sort at the heart of what had become of Soldiers' Peak, but it was an entirely different thing to think about such a situation than to face it.

"Can you feel it, Jowan?" She asked softly, hoping that he would somehow answer in the negative. The Apprentice-turned-apostate's lips thinned, and she looked away from him, to the slight frown and joined eyebrows on Alistair's face.

"You'd better be careful," Jowan said finally, "I don't think this is the place for you to explore the Fade— it's far worse here than it was in Redcliffe." Lorelei had to wonder why, precisely, the demons had limited themselves to the Keep when they could have travelled through the tunnels and eventually to the more populated areas of Ferelden.

"Ah, such confidence you have in your leader," Zevran mused, then smirked as Kallian cuffed him lightly.

"But what does all that _mean_?" Levi asked finally, and Sten snorted in derision.

"It means," Kallian spoke through clenched teeth, "That you lead us into a fine mess."

"Enough of that," Alistair cut off any reply that Levi could have given, and spent several seconds studying Jowan and Lorelei herself— the latter with an intensity that made her breath catch— before continuing with an authority that was both surprising and expected, somehow. "Bickering isn't going to get us anywhere, and no matter what Levi's personal history here is, this is Keep belongs to the _Grey Wardens_. Duncan would have wanted to reclaim it, so we might as well press on."

As they entered the Keep, an instinct pricked by a swirl of glowing dust and a breathy, soft laugh had her hands raised and the words for the mana clash spell on her lips.

It was an instinct that she was profoundly grateful for when the arcane horror appeared before them, the shredded rags that had once been robes rasping against bones that were all but dust themselves. She loosed the spell with the sing-song, whistling incantation that she'd had such difficulty with in the Tower, and the corpse that had once been a mage sagged in the air. When it was hit with Alistair's Holy Smite, it crashed to the ground with a sigh.

The other threats in the room— two lesser rage demons— were dispatched quickly and easily, and Levi Dryden seemed unreasonably shocked by this. Lorelei wondered if he had forgotten that he was accompanying experienced, if junior, Grey Wardens— plus Kallian and Zevran— and that three of them had faced an _Archdemon_ , no less, and survived the experience.

* * *

"But— this means—"

"I am sorry, Levi," Lorelei touched her fingertips to one of the man's slumped shoulders, and he sighed, placing the parchment— somehow preserved for centuries— back on the table. Along with the Statement of Defiance on the wall, the letter on the break-room table supported the official story of the fall of Soldiers' Peak— that the Grey Wardens, led by Sophia Dryden, rebelled against the king. Whatever their reasons, it was still high treason, and more than enough to get the whole Order exiled from Ferelden.

"It _is_ still possible that she was justified—" Levi gave her a look that was one part hopeful and two parts desperate, and she winced.

"Perhaps the rebellion was justified, but—"

"But?"

"The rift in the Veil here is— something else happened here, Levi, something that _wasn't_ justified. We've already faced two powerful demons, and I can feel the influence of more." To the point where she didn't dare step into the Fade, for as strong as that particular talent made her in most cases, she was vulnerable like any mage would be when she crossed the Veil. To face one demon in its own domain was dangerous enough— but several? It would be idiocy.

"I—"

"There's noise this way," Alistair paused long enough to flash Levi a look of sympathy, and then he straightened, gesturing to the West path. "I think we'd best clear out whatever we come across; otherwise they might have a chance to come at us from behind." He shifted on his feet slightly and regarded Kallian with a look that was— almost heavy— before he continued, "I think it's best if I take point. If we're facing more demons— especially ones that are on fire— engaging them directly is unwise."

"Rage demons," Jowan said softly, flushing with obvious embarrassment at the looks he received for correcting Alistair. "Yes, I know a little about magic and demons— I did grow up in the Tower, thanks."

"I approve of any plan that reduces the risk of serious burns," Lorelei said softly, "They are rather tricky and slow to heal, and I'm neither Wynne nor Anders."

"Thank the Maker for that," Jowan replied, "They're both _really annoying_."

"I'll scout ahead for traps," Kallian said brightly, and at Alistair's frown, rolled her eyes, "Keep your pants on; I'll fall back when we have to fight. Traps can be pretty dangerous too, especially if you're the type to stumble into them." The almost-templar levelled a fairly good attempt at a stern look at the fair Elf, though he looked torn between amusement and worry, especially when her response was the irreverent, slightly feral grin that was standard.

Kallian moved ahead of them, at first with an exaggerated 'on tip-toe' stance, probably to tease Alistair, but quickly falling into her usual, whisper-quiet approach. When she returned, she wasn't smiling.

"No traps," she explained, "But— well. It's a bunch of armoured corpses, and it's disgusting— of course, _that_ 's not particularly new or anything. I'm just saying."

"Anyway," Alistair drawled, shooting Jowan a dark, if brief, look, "The undead don't kill themselves. I mean, re-kill themselves. I mean— let's just go, alright?" Kallian was grinning at this glimpse of old-Alistair, and Sten was shaking his head at the relapse.

* * *

"I— I can't believe that they would—"

"The King's men certainly didn't," Lorelei pointed out, as gently as she could, "There is very little recorded history of King Arland's rule, but what little remains in the Tower's library suggested that he did not have the support of the Circle of Magi."

"It might explain why the Grey Wardens were only allowed to recruit one mage at a time, between being allowed back into Ferelden and the Blight," Alistair said, "I remember asking Duncan about that— and he said that it was because of an ugly incident in the Order's past, but he wouldn't tell me anything else." The almost-templar winced, "Though I don't like the thought of _Grey Wardens_ _summoning demons_ , even in the most desperate situation."

"From what I've noticed, the Order subscribes to a whole lot of 'the end justifies the means' sort of thinking," Jowan said slowly, eyes flicking from Alistair to Lorelei and then away, betraying an anxiety that reminded her that whatever progress he'd made, Jowan hadn't quite finished coming into himself. "I guess, after a while, that begins to— I don't know, apply to everything, not just the darkspawn, especially when there isn't a Blight to remind the whole world of the reason Grey Wardens exist in the first place."

"It still bothers me," Alistair admitted, and Kallian snorted, though her expression was more sympathetic than the gesture implied, and when she spoke, her voice lacked any trace of derision.

"It would," she said, "Between all the bedtime stories about the heroism of the Grey Wardens and the black-and-white, all-or-nothing doctrine of the Chantry, I have to say that I'm impressed that you ever remember that they were men— and women, with flesh and blood and flaws just like the rest of us." Despite the genuine sympathy behind it, Kallian's blunt speech had Alistair turning bright red to the tips of his ears, and Lorelei stepped forward quickly.

"We should press on," she said, "We've not cleared the Keep yet, and—" Lorelei blinked as the stone floor seemed to ripple beneath her, and her voice became muffled and distorted, like she was trying to speak under water.

"Lorelei!" Alistair was shaking her, making it even more difficult to find her balance. There was something— she hissed sharply and twisted away from her friend, frantically trying to remember the words to the Litany of Adralla, forcing her eyes to stay open and focussed on the world— the flesh and blood and stone world— in which she needed to stay grounded with the Veil in shreds all around them. Her eyes found Jowan's, and with a start, she realised that he was speaking, chanting the very words that had slipped from her memory.

It took several repititions, but eventually, Lorelei felt the foreign influence lift from her, and she sank to the floor, stunned.

"What was _that_? And that spell you were—"

"The Litany of Adralla," Jowan explained, offering Lorelei a helping hand and flinching at the glare he received from Alistair for his efforts, "It prevents mind domination."

"But that means— blood magic," Alistair sputtered. Lorelei glanced over to Levi, who had paled noticeably. She shook her head. The man was more troubled by forbidden magic than _actual demons and abominations_. Then again, she had explained that the dreams calling him to Soldiers' Peak could have been brought about by the practice of such magic; it was quite possible that the reality of being controlled in such a way made blood magic— and being unaware of it— all the more frightening.

"It means a blood mage," Jowan winced as he spoke, and Lorelei twisted around to shoot Alistair a look of warning. His glare didn't disappear, but it did soften slightly, and that was enough to allow Jowan to release his death grip on her hand.

"Demons are quite adept at mind control," Lorelei reminded him, though she had to admit— very, very quietly, and only in her own head— that it had felt _different_ from a demon's touch, somehow. "Sloth, Desire, and Pride are known for their ability to influence the unaware. All the same, thank you, Jowan. I shall have to— practice the Litany more often."

"I learned it when I was reading about blood magic," he admitted, shooting glances at all of their companions, most of which landed on Alistair, "It wasn't in the recommended reading or anything, but I thought— just in case."

"Well, you may have just saved all our lives," Lorelei said, with a false cheer that made even _her_ wince. "I remembered most of it, but I never actually memorized it. I— never thought I'd need it." Jowan flinched, then moved in close— Alistair barked something, but then Lorelei realised why he was pushing her back, behind Sten and Alistair.

She gagged as the form grew closer, ruined face twisting into what might have been a smile, had it not been worn by a corpse. Rusted armour— Lorelei noticed the double gryphons on the chest— squeaked with the movement, slow, deliberate steps. Levi sucked in an astonished breath, then gagged. Zevran made a whispered comment about the Dryden ancestor having 'really let herself go', drawing a pained almost-laugh from the merchant, who seemed to be finally realising just how out of his depth he was. Jowan released her and stepped away, but stayed by her side, offering her a wince that was probably supposed to be a reassuring smile. Sten and Alistair raised their blades, and what had once been Sophia Dryden raised two rotted hands in the standard gesture of parley.

"This one," it rasped, "Would make a deal."

* * *

"Why would we make a deal with you; you're— you're a demon!" The demon laughed; it was an eerie, rasping sound as something akin to breath whistled through teeth and rotted gums. Alistair had stepped between Lorelei and the talking corpse as he'd spoken, and she could see his shoulders rise under his armour as he tensed, readying for an attack.

"Really? Without this one, the Veil will unravel completely— more demons, more misery. You can choose one of my kind, or many." Lorelei suddenly realised why the demon's words were accompanied by a strange scraping noise: the corpse's teeth gnashed together as the demon used just a little too much force in moving Sophia Dryden's jaw to speak. "The deal that this one offers is fair. Set me free, and I will seal the Veil. You may have your Keep back. Is that not what you want?"

"Levi," Alistair growled, his voice low in his throat, "I think I'm about to kill your grandmother." The merchant blinked, then winced.

"Whatever this creature is, it is no longer my great-great-grandmother, Warden."

"Whatever was left of Sophia Dryden, the demon has devoured it," Lorelei agreed softly, "It seeks to be free so that it can feed on others." She sent a ripple of magic along the floor, feeling for the edges of the demon's influence and trying to gauge its power. The spell snapped back, and Lorelei gasped— it was almost like a sharp slap against her Fade-sense.

"You!" The blackened eyelids lowered over rheumy eyes, rotted flesh forming into a snarl. "You are like the one that keeps it here... full of selfish sentiment and foolish feelings. You should have learned your place. Meek, subservient, quiet." Sophia Dryden's teeth clicked together on the 't' sounds, "But it seeks to bind, to control, to entrap! To continue the work of the binder in the tower! Treacherous Wardens, at every turn! This one will crush you! This one will see you suffer!"

"Lorelei!" Jowan pulled, hard, on her arm and she stumbled backwards just as a blade came down upon the place where she'd been standing. The demon had raised several nearby corpses to aid it as it lunged at Alistair, seeking to take advantage of the opening he left when he glanced back in Lorelei's direction.

The demon's blade came to a sudden, shuddering stop several inches above Alistair's shoulder, and Lorelei glanced over at Jowan, who seemed frozen in the final gesture that she knew belonged to a powerful spell of protection— a spherical shield of spirit magic. The shield around Alistair flickered and died, but it had given him more than enough time to turn and face the creature, brace himself, and then barrel into it with his shield raised and his sword arm ready.

Jowan was wide-eyed, but he gave Lorelei a shaky nod and stepped back, allowing Kallian and Zevran to come forward and commence cutting through the corpses closest to her. On her other side, Sten shoved his sword through the chest of one, right through the back of another. Levi's hands shook as he drew his bow, and the arrow that he loosed predictably missed its mark.

Jowan managed a surprisingly powerful curse against the creature possessing Sophia Dryden's corpse, and it _screamed_ , a terrible, shrill thing that had all of them covering their ears— or wanting to. In that moment of distraction, the demon rushed forward and its sword scraped against the stone before it came up, flashing wickedly. Jowan was just barely too slow to dodge the blow himself after shoving her roughly out of the way, and the point of the blade sliced through his lovely leather armour and carved a deep groove into his flesh from the inside of his knee to the outside of his hip. He crumpled to the stone floor, making an odd sound— something between a shriek and a gasp— and his blood glittered under the eerie, flickering light encasing a door behind him. Lorelei was sure that it vibrated, and then it seemed to rise from the floor, as if pulled by invisible strings tied to Jowan's fingers as he gestured sharply, face a rictus of pain and fear and— shocking, considering the fact that this was _Jowan_ — rage. Lorelei was trying very hard to ignore the odd feeling in her blood, like a cross between the call of the darkspawn taint and the strange, heady song of lyrium.

Sophia Dryden— except that it was _not_ Sophia Dryden, she reminded herself forcibly— seemed to hover in place, frozen, until Kallian's voice dragged the world back into focus. The lovely, caustic Elf was screaming, punctuating each creative expletive— _that_ was, Lorelei was sure, anatomically impossible— with a sharp thrust and twist of a dagger into the creature's spine. She kept stabbing even as the rotted corpse fell, daggers scraping against the stone floor until Zevran pulled her back, assuring her that Sophia Dryden was not going to get any deader.

Lorelei was too startled to say anything, and then she followed Kallian's suspiciously shiny eyes to where Jowan was trying— and failing— to cover the horrible wound with his hands. He was white as a sheet, which was a stark contrast to the red, red blood that pooled under him, and when he looked up at her, he flashed a sad little smile.

The magic came easily, flaring white and silver at her fingertips and then winding around Jowan, sparking at his edges.

"You can't— the Veil—"

"Shut up," Kallian had moved, it seemed, from rage to shock to rage again, "Shut up and let her heal you, you stupid, _stupid_ shem."

Jowan blinked up at the prickly, pretty woman who'd threatened to gut him more than once and Lorelei forced herself to _focus_ on her spell, cautious of the rippling, twisted Veil, and the rifts that threatened to turn a steady trickle of magic into a wild, alternating rush of power as likely to turn her patient inside-out as it was to heal him.

* * *

Lorelei dragged the tip of her fingers down the edge of the page as she read, growing more disturbed by the moment.

"Jowan," she said softly, and she turned just as Levi finished helping him back into his armour, cinching boots and chaps in place over a pair of borrowed pants. The other mage had been absolutely mortified once she'd healed him, suddenly realising how much of his anatomy had been exposed as Sophia Dryden's sword had split open his trousers and small-clothes in the process of splitting open his leg.

His face was so red that it looked burned, but he came to her side despite his embarrassment. She stepped back to allow him to inspect the journals and notes and vial of— something— it looked like blood, felt like darkspawn taint and sang, very faintly, like lyrium.

"Maker's blood," Jowan whispered, and she made a sound of agreement in her throat. "This is..."

"What? What is it?" Alistair frowned, "Demons don't usually keep a diary, do they?"

"Not according to anything I've read before," Lorelei admitted, sharing a sidelong glance with Jowan.

"Then again, the Chantry is more concerned with destroying that sort of information than teaching it," he elaborated, and Alistair managed to respond with a nervous shrug rather than a sharp comment. "So it's not like we _know_ , really."

"Journals aside," Kallian spoke with an exaggerated drawl as she leaned against a bookshelf and dragged a finger along a shelf and examined it, "I can't imagine any demon bothering to _dust_." Her stance was relaxed, but there was a tell-tale tightness around her mouth as she swept her eyes over Jowan, hovering where he'd been cut open by Sophia's blade before moving on to the rest of the room and the objects within it.

"I think this is where the blood mage lives," Jowan said softly, wincing slightly at Alistair's raised eyebrow— now that was a curious thing, and Lorelei wondered how much time the almost-templar had been spending with Warren, or Loghain— or even Anora, all of whom had particular mastery of that gesture.

Lorelei sent a ripple of magic through the closed door, and felt, once again— that flicker of surprise, curiosity, and a disturbing level of cunning. It wasn't the same as touching a demon; as canny as those could be, they did not inspire the same level of unease as the presence beyond the door. She took a slow, deep breath, and nodded to Sten, who opened the door.

Alistair led the way as they entered the large, spacious laboratory. Jowan blinked as Kallian pulled him back, as if to discourage another bit of heroism. The Veil, at least, was stronger here, and Lorelei hoped that was a positive sign as she braced herself for the meeting with the mastermind behind Levi's dreams.

* * *

The blood mage of Soldiers' Peak was old, and— despite appearing tired and frail— quite powerful. Lorelei felt a sting as her tongue was caught, briefly, between tightly clenched teeth; the depth of the man's influence was staggering. It was this mage that held the demons within the fortress; it was _this_ mage that had almost managed, somehow, to dominate her mind even outside of her presence— this was unheard of. Then again, she imagined that quite a bit was _unheard_ of to a Circle mage, as that was generally what the Chantry sought.

"You are the boy who braved the mists," his voice was rough, as if from disuse, and Lorelei winced at the observation, since it wasn't as if he'd had anyone to speak with for some time. "So you heeded my call." She suspected that the expression the man turned upon them was supposed to be a smile, but the only response that she could manage was a shudder; Levi shot her a look that suggested that his feelings echoed hers.

"Your call?" Alistair's eyes were narrowed, and his sword was drawn, point directed at the floor but ready to be brought to bear in just an instant.

"He was but a boy, when he first entered the tunnels below the Peak," the mage explained, "His heart pure— his character certain. In dreams, I gave him the keys he would need. He would be my deliverance."

"Deliverance from what, I wonder?" Lorelei hoped that her voice held the right combination of curiosity and suspicion— enough to gain the answers she wished while also warning the strange mage not to try any more of his mind tricks on them.

"And who are you?" The man said sharply, eyes narrowing as they bored into hers, "Why have Wardens returned to Soldiers' Peak after so many years?"

"We have come to reclaim this fortress for the Grey Wardens," Alistair snapped, placing himself between Lorelei and the lone living resident of the old castle. "Who are _you_? What role did you play in this madness?"

"Ah," he sounded moments away from laughter, "I did not realise that introductions were required. I am Avernus, senior mage of the Ferelden Grey Wardens." There were a few moments of stony silence before the old man smiled that same creepy smile as before— compounded by the fact that he looked right past Alistair and straight at Jowan, and then Lorelei. "I believe this is where you reciprocate."

"We seek answers, mage, not idle conversation," Sten snarled, knuckles pale from the tight grip on his greatsword.

"Answers? To what questions, I wonder? Ask, then."

"What in the Maker's name _happened_ here?" Levi seemed to have finally found his voice, and Avernus graced him with a measuring gaze that Lorelei knew well. "Did my great-great-great Grandmother really lead a rebellion against the King of Ferelden?"

"So you are a Dryden, then?" Avernus laughed, a short, sharp sound with as much bitterness in it as humour, "The cosmos has a sense of humour, it seems. Our cause was just, boy— Arland ruled with fear and poison. His treachery pit noble against noble in a terrible battle. We thought him a monster; we gathered allies to rebel." At Alistair's expression, he rolled his eyes. "And yes, we found those allies, at least, we almost did. We met with the Teyrn Cousland of Highever, but we were betrayed. The King's guard ambushed us; the Commander and I were lucky to escape." There was a flicker of some emotion across his face— Lorelei wasn't sure if it was sadness or anger, or something in between. "I saw the Teyrn's head on the meeting table with an apple in its mouth. I've no doubt that he slaughtered enough Couslands to make them... pliable. Make no mistake, Arland was a _butcher_."

"And you claim to be better?" Alistair's voice was full of righteous anger, "We _saw_ your experiments."

"So you can see into the past, can you?" Avernus was speaking slowly, as if speaking with a particularly stupid child. Something inside Lorelei tensed at his derisive tone— and at the look he levelled at Alistair, then each of them in turn, like they were insects pinned to a display. "You have seen my journals, my notes perhaps, but you saw nothing of my experiments, and you are clearly unable to see their purpose— and their necessity."

"Necessity? Necessity is relieving yourself after an eight-hour ride, not _summoning demons_ and _torturing fellow Wardens_."

"Charming," the old mage drawled, and Jowan made a choking noise in his throat before Alistair re-directed his angry glare at the reformed blood mage, who was already looking away from Lorelei's wordless reproach.

"Perhaps if you explained your purpose, we could better understand your feeling of necessity." Sten snorted in disgust, and Lorelei could not tell if his feeling was directed at her cajoling tone or at the way Avernus smiled and smoothed his robes.

"It was to stop the demonic tide, to correct the miscalculations of the past. Blood magic comes from demons; they could counter every bit of lore that I knew. I needed— something else." His eyes lit up briefly as he spoke, and Lorelei felt almost like there were little insects under her skin. "The darkspawn taint— _that_ is alien to them, and it has _power_." His smile was slow, and his eyes swept over her briefly before he nodded. " _You_ know this, yes. You are— a most interesting specimen." It was at this point that Alistair tapped the butt of his sword against his shield, and Lorelei realised, as he stepped back, that the old mage had crept closer to her as he spoke, testing her with his magic as well as his eyes.

"You'll keep your distance," Alistair hissed.

"Oh, aren't you a jealous suitor," Avernus drawled; Lorelei watched the blush creep up the back of the templar's neck as his shoulders rose slightly, readying for battle. The old mage made a clicking sound with his tongue and sighed, as if disappointed. "Wardens use the Taint merely to sense darkspawn, but that is— a triviality. My research discovered so much more, and has hinted at even greater heights— and you— you are like no Warden I have ever seen. I think that your blood may be exactly what I need..." Lorelei stepped back, and Avernus stepped forward, attempting to draw her in, "Don't you see? Only under the Wardens can true magical research continue. We have a chance to discover the secrets of ancient Tevinter— or even surpass them—"

"Yes, because that worked out _so well_ for Tevinter," Alistair snapped, "Remember? The First Blight?" Avernus dismissed the comment with a wave of his hand, not looking away from Lorelei.

"Chantry lies told to subjugate mages— to keep them docile— like you, sadly, and your quick-tempered friend, here."

"And how do you know that they're wrong?"

"How do you know that they're right? Their faith would have you swallow a great deal for small comfort."

"And you would have us swallow even more," Sten had stepped forward, until he joined Alistair in separating Avernus from Lorelei— at least, as far as line of sight went. "Enough. We have come to reclaim this fortress and any of its history, not to trade arguments with a mage who should be long dead. Let us cleanse this place and move on— I am anxious to be elsewhere."

"Should I have given the demons free reign, then? Any tool, any iota of information that could defeat the fell demons was justified. As a Warden, you should know that."

"And you would use the same excuse to justify summoning so many demons?" It was a bit of a guess, at least until Avernus's expression confirmed her suspicions, "Would Arland claim that his own actions were necessary and justified to keep his throne, I wonder?" She shook her head, "I know well where a Warden's duty lies— _my_ Order _ended a Blight_. I slew an Archdemon. Your Order started a rebellion and sought the death of a King. We did what we _had to do_ — you did what you wanted. There is a difference there, and it isn't at all subtle."

"I—" Lorelei was almost shocked that she'd managed to leave the proud mage at a loss for words. He stared at her for several moments before nodding in agreement to whatever conclusion that he'd reached in his head.

"That— means something, coming from a Warden," he said finally, "Arguing serves no purpose. The tyrant Arland is long dead, as is our grand rebellion and all of our co-conspirators. Sophia's corpse may walk and talk, but she, too, is no more."

"It does not."

"Oh?"

"We dispatched the possessed corpse of Sophia Dryden before we reached this room," Lorelei explained, refusing to cringe away from Avernus's intense attention.

"Ah. You were wise not to trust her. I believe that— creature— to be the architect of my downfall."

"No," Lorelei said, the anger that had been smouldering somewhere in her middle suddenly flaring to life, " _You_ are the architect to your own downfall, Avernus. Had you not been so prideful, you would not have been so foolish." The old mage was shaking his head, and Lorelei thought that the gesture was one of disagreement until he spoke.

"So tired," he said mournfully, "So old. We were— so full of vigor, then. We fought a tyrant." A small, sad smile danced across his lips and was gone as quickly as it had come. "Very well, Wardens. I will submit to whatever judgement that you feel I merit; my only request is that you stay your hand until the demons are dealt with. Let me— undo my greatest mistake. Let me cleanse this place." Sten made a noise in his throat, and Alistair shot her a look that said all she needed to know about his opinion. "The Veil must be closed," Avernus pressed, "You know this. You all know this."

Lorelei hoped that _Alistair_ — never mind the Maker— would forgive her for agreeing.

* * *

Lorelei wasn't sure what was wrong— she wasn't even sure if it was the Veil, or herself. All the little hairs on her arms and neck stood up under her armour as if she were cold, but she felt far too warm. Too warm, sluggish, and confused— her body refused to respond to her commands, and her very thoughts were slow and muffled, as if she were listening to someone else speaking with her own voice through several walls.

She was able to blink several times, but even that took an eternity, and it did nothing to clear her vision. It was like trying to see through many layers of coloured glass.

Avernus was speaking. She _knew_ , somehow, that he was speaking, even though his words never seemed to reach her ears. She could feel his magic, reaching, twisting, humming against her mind, and she wondered, absently, if she was resisting its pull— and why. She felt so tired, and she could see the dark fringe of her eyelashes as her eyes began to close— then stopped somewhere in the middle.

She was missing something, something important.

Someone was shaking her, chanting in a low, desperate voice. Lorelei could barely force herself to stare at him, trying— half-heartedly— to understand the stricken look on his blurry face, and remember why the words he spoke were important. She knew that they were, but it was difficult even to wonder.

Her own hands were coming up, as if of their own accord, and after they pushed the chanting, dark-haired man— Jowan, her own voice supplied, and there was something frantic wrapped up in that thought, that name, but she couldn't understand, couldn't grasp what she should _know_ , and not be struggling with— her hands pushed Jowan away, and then began to gesture. She wanted her hands to stop, but it was as if she were a passenger in her own body, and she did not know _why_ it was so important that she be anything else. Her hands continued to gesture, and she could hear her own voice reciting the words to the spell. It sounded like someone else's voice, not the least of which because it lacked any sort of inflection. It was her voice, but as if she had been made Tranquil, stripped of all emotion as well as access to the Fade. She recognized that as funny, somehow, but she did not have the strength to laugh. She watched her hands make the final gesture of the spell, watched someone pull Jowan out of the way and turn towards her, speaking in a tone of voice that sounded almost like he was begging her for something.

There was a flash of surprise, not her own, and then— confusion, anger, also not her own— as the too-perfect combination of gesture and incantation resulted in— nothing. It was as if the Fade itself had refused to respond to command. This was unexpected, perhaps even unprecedented. Lorelei did not know how she knew which feelings were her own and which were foreign; she felt like she had been immersed in very cold water, and was now floating in a numb state between death and dying.

How could she possibly know what it was like to be before death but beyond dying? She had yet to forget what had happened after the death of the Archdemon, but that had felt completely different from this... and then, the odd feeling began to lift, and her awareness returned with painful clarity— emphasis on _painful_.

She was on her hands and knees, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she as much dust into her lungs as she did air. The sounds that had been muffled were now terribly loud, and if she weren't holding herself up with her hands, she'd have put them over her ears. The warmth of a rejuvination spell settled into her skin, and she let out a sound that was supposed to be a "thank you" but came out more like "thug uh".

Hands closed around her arms, and before she was fully aware of what was happening, she was being raised to her feet, gentle voices in her ear.

The first thing she noticed was the blood. The second was the look of— shock, confusion— on Avernus's bloodless face. She tore her eyes away from the glassy gaze of the blood mage and forced them to find Jowan's— and then Alistair's, where they stayed, not that she was all that inclined to look away. She rather liked Alistair's eyes, though there was something in them that troubled her.

She still felt too foggy, too sluggish, too— what was wrong with her? What had _happened_?

She was about to ask when Alistair spoke.

"Not everyone, it seems, deserves a second chance," he said softly.


	17. The Wardens' Keep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Once Avernus is dealt with, Soldiers' Peak proves that it has even more secrets than Lorelei had imagined.

* * *

"We couldn't have known—" The plaintive edge had returned to Jowan's voice, and she winced, feeling the gritty floor scraping against her cheek.

"We knew the mage was dangerous," Sten's level tone was striking in its contrast to Jowan's and contained more than a note of censure, but less than what would constitute the big man's usual level of contempt for the idiocy of the unenlightened races. Jowan would, no doubt, miss this, as he had yet to stop taking the Qunari view on mages personally, and this prompted Lorelei to wonder why she never had. "If we had done the sensible thing and slain the creature right away—"

"Well, if the _sensible_ thing is to kill every mage on sight," Jowan snarled, "then I suppose you'd have us kill her now, before she awakens, just in case—"

"No," the giant's voice was nearly a roar before he seemed to regain control of it, dragging it back to a more reasonable volume, "The Warden— _kadan_ — is different."

"And what, exactly, do you mean by _different_?" Lorelei was as curious as Jowan to the answer, but whatever might have been said was lost to the cacophony of her own coughing as she took a deep breath composed more of dust than air. She had done _that_ often enough that she should know better by now. "Lorelei!"

Once she was able to stop coughing and blink the sparks away from her vision, she was not even remotely surprised to discover that the arms that had manoeuvred her onto her back— and then into a sitting position and held her until she calmed— belonged to Alistair.

His eyes were wide and worried, and she tried to smile, to offer some sort of reassurance, but her voice came out rough, and the words tumbled over one another like they were competing for the position of the chief jester in the Orlesian Royal Palace.

"It's not usually like this," Alistair turned his face away from her, presumably to send a worried glance at Jowan. "The last time she was this out of sorts—"

"—Was when that Templar hit her so hard, Anders had to piece her head back together," Jowan's voice was grave, and it hitched at the end as he studied her, looking for injuries he lacked the expertise to find, let alone put right.

"You've no gift for healing, Jowan," she managed, finally, to state the obvious and push Jowan's hands away. Alistair pulled her to her feet and held her to his chest, in a strange sort of hug; it might have been romantic if it weren't for the blood and stale sweat soaking his armour and the padding beneath it. Even still, she was hesitant to break the embrace, stink and all.

"Then you'll have to recover, won't you?" The tone of his voice betrayed the depth of his emotion, and Lorelei twisted in Alistair's grip to stare at the dark-haired blood mage. Jowan's eyes widened as he met her gaze, and then he looked away, flushing bright red in the flickering light of Sten's torch. Alistair's hold on her tightened, before he released her, somewhat abruptly, and pulled away.

"I'm— glad you're all right," he mumbled, and Lorelei turned back to him, frowning at his tone, at his posture, and mostly at the way his eyes slid away from hers like a pair of boots, skipping frantically down a slippery incline. She was reaching out, and then stopped, startled by the pale, skeletal appearance of her fingers as they splayed wide, joints looking swollen and knobby on fingers thinned nearly to the bone. She withdrew her hand before she could get to caught up in the image, and the thoughts into which it threatened to send her spiralling.

"Enough," she said, hating how her voice shook, but knowing that any attempt to force it to calm would make her appear even more unsteady, "We'll need to be able to give Warren a detailed report, so it's best if we get on with it."

It hadn't been explicitly stated as part of Warren's orders, and though it was logical enough, it was mostly that she was anxious to find something to distract her from wayward pieces of thoughts to big and scattered to be made sense of, a strange sense of being watched and of something important having been forgotten— and the disturbing way the rushing sound in her ears reminded her of Flemeth's laughter.

* * *

Lorelei was a little surprised, but far from displeased, when Jowan found several sheets of blank parchment and insisted they all have a copy of the Litany of Adralla— copies which he began to produce with a fair and speedy hand that hinted at which duties he'd have been set to once made Tranquil— and that they all memorize it presently.

"What use will a spell do us?" Sten asked, "We are not mages."

"The Litany of Adralla," Lorelei explained, "is, understandably, more effective when recited by a mage, but— it is thought to counter mind-domination no matter who speaks the words." Jowan was nodding in agreement.

"No one is entirely sure why," Jowan continued, having apparently found books that Lorelei had not, "Adralla was a devout mage who apparently discovered counters for every type of mind-domination magic— including a defense against something called a _Dreamer_ ," and here there was a significant glance at Lorelei, one making it clear that though the term had confused him before, it no longer did, "She fled Tevinter after several assassination attempts, and spent the rest of her life at the Circle in Ferelden. The best that I can guess is that maybe the words themselves are magic— all the texts assume that the spell is in ancient Arcanum, but it doesn't actually make sense— the phrasing and emphasis are really _odd_ , actually, and this one time I tried to translate it, well..." He paused in transcribing the second copy, carefully positioning the tip of his quill over the blotter, and began to recite the Litany. The haunting, earthy words filled the room, and Lorelei suspected that she was not alone in feeling the tiniest bit heavier and more grounded— more focussed— with each word. It was a bit dizzying, really, which was no small part of why she'd always found it particularly difficult to memorize, or conversely— forget. When the feeling faded— several minutes after Jowan had gone silent— Kallian had something to say.

"It sounds like Elven." Everyone but Sten was nodding in agreement.

"It sounds more like the language of the Dwarves," he insisted, "Though the languages are similar, in a way."

"But why would a spell be in Dwarvish?," Alistair's emphasis was more in line with an exclamation than the hushed, overly-careful tone he affected, "They don't even _have_ mages!" Lorelei was not surprised, with all his Chantry training, at how he focused on the lack of Dwarves who were mages rather than the fact that Sten had, apparently, been listening with some attention when Oghren and Faren had spoken amongst themselves in low— often gravelly from drink— voices. And that he had enough of an ear for language to hear the similarity between their tongue and the language of the litany.

"I know little of the Dwarves," Sten countered, turning a harsh gaze on Alistair, "Though if I recognise their language before you, perhaps you know even less."

"As interesting as it is," Lorelei said softly, "We can discuss the possible origins of the Litany another time. Jowan is right— whether it is Dwarvish or Elvish or something else entirely, it is too useful not to make use of, especially since we have all recently witnessed the magic for which it is the counter." Levi Dryden was not the only one to pale at the reminder, and when Jowan finished making his copies— three in total— they were all attentive students as they practised.

* * *

"I'm— not sure we want to go in there," Jowan said, and for a moment, Lorelei hesitated.

"I should check for traps first," Kallian added, and something within her bristled at the way Kallian, Jowan, Alistair— and even Sten and Zevran and _Levi_ — seemed united in their protectiveness of her.

_You are not what you appear to be, Warden_ , Loghain had said.

_You have such potential_ , Flemeth had crooned.

_One_ _Archdemon_ _short of a Blight_ , Kallian's cousin had muttered, looking at her from the very edges of her large eyes.

"Lorelei?" Jowan's voice was soft, concerned, just as it had been in that corridor at the Warden Compound in Denerim. She shook herself, shoving ominous thoughts aside. They would return later— they always did.

"We go in," she said firmly— probably too firmly, guessing from Jowan's slight flinch, "We— have a better idea of what we'll find than those who come after. It's best that we have answers to give Warren when he asks— and he _will_ ask." She pushed the doors wide open and forced herself to cross the crowded laboratory with long strides which spoke of a confidence she didn't actually have, flicking little— and not so little— balls of light from her fingers, to fully illuminate the horrible truth about what Senior Grey Warden Mage Avernus had been up to.

"Oh Maker," Alistair was not the only one struggling to keep from losing the contents of his stomach as they stepped fully into Avernus's true workshop, lined with cages and racks and tables and corpses, long past dead but still present, in the heavy feeling in the air made up of more than just fumes from the centre of the large room. If one ignored the walls (and the smell) it didn't look terribly different from any other potions laboratory. There was even an area dedicated to growing herbs— though the plants had long since turned to dust— likely from a lack of sunlight and water— and the pots had since become a crude latrine. Alas, for all it had once been, there was no ignoring the cages, the corpses, the oppressive combination of horror and fumes and the smell of death. In the background, she could hear the others fiddling with the shutters over the windows, and then a series of crashes as Sten broke open one set, then another, with the handle of his greatsword. If she hadn't felt so suffocated, she might have laughed at how his grim practicality refused to fail even in the most dire of circumstances; as it was, she joined Zevran at the window closest to her and inhaled large gulps of fresh, cold air. It was as much an ordeal as it was a relief, for the air was as _cold_ and thin as it ought to be from a window atop a tower in the mountains. If the window was small, and if she was closer to the Antivan assassin than she'd normally consent to, she ignored it in favour of pulling more of that _lovely_ — cold and thin, but still lovely— air into her lungs and expelling the poison of Avernus's lab.

When she stepped back, Zevran was watching her with what might have been the saddest expression she'd ever seen. It quickly morphed into his customary smirk-and-raised-eyebrows. Unable to summon even the illusion of annoyance, she stared at him until his expression became a flat, blank mask.

"There is another tower," he said into the silence, and suddenly, Alistair was there asking after it, and claiming the space by Lorelei's side as they both looked out the narrow window. "A watch-tower, perhaps."

"It might be," Alistair's voice had a forced sort of calm that always put Lorelei on edge. "I can only hope it's not—" he made a vague gesture over his shoulder that Lorelei felt, rather than saw, as the muscles of his shoulders and back shifted.

"Avernus was forced up into this tower," Jowan pointed out, and Lorelei let Alistair pull her away from the window. The air in the lab had lost much of its heaviness, though she imagined that it might always feel a little bit— _haunted_ , considering what had happened here. "He probably— adapted— this laboratory to his purposes. It looks like it was a standard— very well-equipped, but standard— potions laboratory."

"But— the cages—!" Lorelei tried— and failed— to not make a face at Levi's exclamation; she supposed it made sense when she remembered how pale and sick he'd looked when they'd discussed blood magic— of which he had been the primary victim— but his naivete ran in several different directions, and she couldn't see his quest to join the nobility being successful if he didn't learn (at the very least) to control his reactions.

"It's actually not uncommon," she said slowly, noticing Jowan's wince of sympathy and holding on to the sentiment behind it while she took in the looks of horror in the faces of the others, "They usually contain creatures like deep stalkers or dragonlings or even drakes— which can be as large as a person."

"And sometimes they _do_ contain people," Jowan flinched as the attention of the room shifted to him, and Lorelei was grateful to him for being willing to take on the censure of the others in order to spare her, "Victims of diseases or defects the mages are working to cure, but are too dangerous for them to be allowed to roam freely."

"That's—" Levi looked to be torn between horror and understanding.

"Terrible," Jowan and Kallian said the word together, and they both looked away afterward, he looking ashamed and she feigning disgust.

"Sensible," Sten disagreed, drawing stunned looks from the others.

"How can you—"

"It would hardly be smart to risk harm to others while trying to cure the sick," he explained, in his 'why-am-I-explaining-this-you-are-an-idiot' voice. Which was pretty much his normal voice.

"I never thought the Qunari would bother," Jowan said, in his version of diplomacy, which was less 'I don't want to offend you' than it was 'Please don't hit me'.

"You think we simply leave our sick to die?" Lorelei could not tell if Sten was more astonished or offended, "You know nothing of us, and so you make us into monsters. Typical."

"Typical?" Kallian was tensed, poised like a viper.

"Yes," Sten was a master of disdain, "You react like wild beasts afraid of thunder, and make up stories to explain your world instead of actually seeking the truth. How you managed to produce a single _Ashkaari_ among you still escapes my understanding."

" _Ashkaari_?" Alistair said, and it was strange to Lorelei how a single word could carry so much emotion behind it— confusion and curiosity from her Templar brother, and an intriguing combination of respect and admiration from the usually hard-to-read Sten.

While Lorelei was as curious as Alistair, especially given the look Sten had aimed in her direction, but they could not so distract themselves while there was so much to be done.

"We can discuss this later," she said softly, "When we are not surrounded by ghosts and corpses. Alistair, I'd like you and Sten to—"

"No."

"—What?"

"I'm going with _you_ ," he said, straightening as he spoke. Lorelei blinked; it was not often that Alistair was so adamant. It was— encouraging, and oddly appealing. She squashed down _that_ feeling and nodded, which set Alistair to blinking in surprise.

"Very well. Sten and Zevran, I'd like you to scout the outside of the Keep and report on the fortifications— any major damage requiring repair, vulnerabilities to a siege, that sort of thing. If you can locate the Keep's source of water, all the better. Jowan, take Kallian and Levi and check the major areas of the Keep for traps. I saw a map in the other room. Start with the main entrance hall and work your way around. Make sure you're careful— check for signs of demons or darkspawn. We haven't seen any yet, but that doesn't mean they haven't breached the Keep at all in the centuries since the rebellion." She took a slow breath, "Alistair and I will scout Zevran's Tower and check the entrance to the Deep Roads— and locate the cache, if we can."

"The— cache?" Levi's blend of surprise and curiosity put Lorelei on edge, but she answered his question— sort of— all the same.

"This looks like a potions laboratory, but I see no signs indicating that the Joining was prepared here," she explained; the Wardens in the room understood immediately, and Levi seemed to take the hint of no more information being forthcoming. Avernus had harvested his fellow Wardens in pursuit of researching the Taint, and neither Lorelei nor the others had sensed the pull of the Taint that would have been present had more than the barest amounts of the Archdemon blood required for the that concoction had ever been stored here. Avernus had done his experiments using the blood of his brother Wardens and the meager contents of the amulets that they wore, which meant that it was unlikely that he'd had access to any substantial supply. Somewhere in the Keep, there was another laboratory— and perhaps a cache of that precious, dangerous, super-secret ingredient, an ingredient of which the Fereldan Grey Wardens currently had a great surplus— more than enough reason for them to need a solid fortress that could withstand a seige.

Once she'd secured assurances of understanding— and given some of her own, concerning her safety— Lorelei watched the two groups leave on their assignments, and then went with Alistair on her own, still wondering at his sudden refusal to leave her.

* * *

"See here," Alistair reached out, and Lorelei turned, peering down at an elaborate altar filled with increasingly crude offerings— letters, trinkets, and several jars of some sort of preserve, long since spoiled. "There were rumours about Warden-Commander Asturian, near the end— before he left for his Calling. A couple of them were referenced in a few very old letters at the Compound in Denerim— they were put under glass in the library." Alistair's eyes kept sliding away from hers, and after a few awkward moments, Lorelei stopped trying and focused her eyes on the altar. "After he died, they became more and more ridiculous until the next Warden-Commander made a declaration condemning such talk as an act of extreme disrespect, and threatened severe punishments for anyone repeating the slander. But I— _I_ think they might have been true, at least partly."

"You're talking about the Taint," Lorelei said softly, the point sliding neatly home in her mind, "About what happens to Grey Wardens before they go to their Calling." Alistair was finally looking at her now, and all of a sudden, she wished that he weren't.

"We all go mad eventually," he continued, doing her the mercy of looking away, "Grey Wardens and Templars both— you know, I thought—" he was choking on the words, and Lorelei was blinking back tears, "When I was recruited, I thought that maybe— well. I knew that Grey Wardens didn't tend to live long lives, but I thought that maybe I'd be spared _that_. That I'd go to my end with my mind intact— what little I have, anyway."

"You're not stupid, Alistair," Lorelei said, bristling at the implication. Alistair smiled, grateful and unbelieving at the same time.

" _Morrigan_ would have something to say about that, I think."

"Morrigan would have a great deal to say— most of it with a purpose behind it. She joined us _for a reason_ , remember?"

"I wish that I didn't." He made a face.

"You brought her up."

"I— I did, didn't I? I ruined a perfectly good bout of self-pity, too." Lorelei turned away, still studying the altar. "Actually, there's something else I've been meaning to ask you."

"About Morrigan?" She wasn't sure what sort of questions he could have in mind, most especially involving Flemeth's beautiful— but dangerous— daughter. "I'm not sure that I have any answers." When she glanced over, Alistair was shaking his head.

"No, I'd much rather not talk about Morrigan." Alistair said dryly, the look on his face expressing his feelings on the matter far more eloquently than his words.

"What is it?"

"When is the last time you used a lyrium potion?" Lorelei opened her mouth to answer, then shut it. She did this several times before Alistair's lips tightened at the corners, pulling back into something that was halfway between a smile of sympathy and a pained grimace. "It was at Redcliffe, wasn't it?"

"When we faced the Revenant at the Gates." Alistair was nodding— it wasn't a reassuring gesture, though, as his face was lined with worry. "I— that's _odd_ , actually."

"Duncan told me once," he began, and though there was a tiny catch in his voice when he said the old Warden-Commander's name, it was less than it had been before, and Lorelei felt this to be an encouraging development. Perhaps one day, Alistair would be able to speak of Duncan without automatically calling up the grief he'd felt— still felt— at the loss of him. "Duncan told me that mages often need _less_ lyrium after the Joining, but I've never heard of a mage being able to cast like you can without any at all."

"I didn't know that," Lorelei felt her eyebrows knitting together on her forehead as she spoke, wondering why Alistair— who was most certainly not a mage— would be given this information.

"Well," Alistair shifted in place, leaning in her direction as he warmed to the new subject, "You know that I was a Templar, right? And that Templars are given lyrium just before initiation to activate their talents?"

"And then given regular doses afterward to maintain them— and to addict the templars themselves." He nodded, then shifted again and ran his hand through his hair— a clear sign that he did not enjoy this subject any more than the last. Which, in turn, made her rather anxious that he'd chosen it in the first place.

"The thing is, I haven't had any lyrium since my first dose— which was before I was recruited. When I asked Duncan about it, he said maybe I'd never need to use lyrium at all. And Sten— he's never had any lyrium, ever."

"So _any_ Warden could use Templar abilities?" Lorelei's mind was spinning with so many possibilities that she almost missed how Alistair's eyes slid away from hers as she asked the question. "Alistair, what is it?"

"While you were— asleep, after the Archdemon," he spoke carefully, but Lorelei was listening closely, and caught the hitch in his voice as he referenced the time during which he'd believed her dead, "Sten used a smite, accidentally. Well, sort of a smite— he hadn't the training, see, so Warren thought—"

"You're telling me that Sten just— spontaneously developed Templar talents?" It was difficult to believe.

"We thought that maybe he'd changed, at the top of Fort Drakon. And then in Denerim, when you were asleep, we thought that you must have changed as well— but you haven't needed lyrium since _before_ that, since Redcliffe—" The 'we' was both familiar and jarring. Lorelei was no stranger to having others discuss her in her absence, but it was rare that anyone admitted to it, and rarer that it was out of concern for her welfare.

"I don't _understand_ ," and there it was— the whining note so annoying in Jowan's voice, now making an unwelcome visit to her own, "I don't—"

"See, the thing is— I don't think lyrium is as necessary to templar talents as the Chantry says, but it does seem to make them stronger. Duncan believed that I'd never be as strong as a very experienced Templar, but that the Taint meant that I'd never need enough to drive me insane. And the strength of my smites and cleanses seemed to be pretty constant, even if they weren't— impressive. But the thing is, I mean— well, what I'm saying is—"

"Alistair," Lorelei forced her comrade's name through her teeth while her mind struggled with all the implications, and he winced in apology, cleared his throat, and tried again.

"My abilities aren't just— _not fading_. They're _getting_ _stronger_. The more that I'm with you." And she'd been sick before slaying the Archdemon, feeling the effects of an early Calling. Almost on her way to becoming a— and then she wasn't. Lorelei thought some more, and realised that several of the unpleasant side-effects that she'd noticed after her Joining had been remarkably absent since she'd awakened to discover herself alive and well, despite all expectations to the contrary; she wondered if she was even Tainted at all, any more. And if she wasn't Tainted, _what was she_? Clearly not the mage of insignificant ability that she'd always assumed that she was— then she remembered just what she'd been able to do without dipping into the lyrium stores, and realised that there was a great deal that she'd assumed, and a great deal about which she'd been very, very wrong.

"Oh _Maker_."

"Lorelei—"

"Alistair," she didn't bother to blink back the tears— tears of confusion, of frustration, of terror— when she stared up into those warm, amber-brown eyes that she loved so much, "What's happened to me?"

She didn't resist when he pulled her into his arms and held her, speaking softly into her hair about madness and gods and things that were impossible— she missed most of it in the attempt to push troubling thoughts away so they could return to their task and find the entrance to the Deep Roads underneath the Keep— but she was grateful to him as he held her gently until she stopped shaking.

She was even more grateful when she pulled away and directed the topic back onto the Keep (and their task), and he didn't push the issue. Then again, perhaps he didn't need to. It would— like so many other things— hang in the air between them, waiting.

_One_ _Archdemon_ _short of a Blight._

Lorelei shuddered. Alistair, Maker keep him, said nothing. If she never thought of Flemeth again, it would be too soon.

* * *

"Hold," Alistair said, "Hold for a moment." Lorelei leaned lightly against the inside wall and turned to face her fellow Warden. He was also leaning— more heavily, and on the outside wall— and breathing heavily between words. "I don't know how you mages manage," he continued, "You know, in the Tower. All those steps."

"It's not like we scale the entire tower daily," she answered, feeling the corners of her mouth turn up at the way his eyebrows rose and his eyes widened with surprise. "Though some of the Templars do— either because they're dedicated or as a punishment— it was a favourite of Greagoir's for when any of his men 'clearly had too much energy for standard patrols'." Then she laughed, and had to spend a few moments calming herself.

"What?"

"I just realised," she covered her smile with her hand, "Greagoir used to give that punishment to apprentices, too— until Anders swam across Lake Calenhad."

"Maker, he actually did that?" Lorelei couldn't decide whether Alistair was more awed or appalled, "I thought— I thought for sure that he was having me on."

"No, he wasn't having you on; he actually managed the swim. It was quite impressive, actually. Well," she paused, thinking back, and then spent several more minutes in an effort to stifle her giggles, "Perhaps it was somewhat less impressive when they brought him back. Or more, I suppose— some were rather _impressed_ then, too." Alistair blinked, and then his laughter joined hers when she said, "Greagoir wasn't among them." When they both got themselves under control again, Alistair set her off with his very first remark.

"I suppose it must have been easier to swim in robes than in full plate." She felt bad, for the way he was looking at her— mingled surprise and confusion. "What? What did I say?"

"Alistair— did Anders _tell_ you that he swam in robes?"

"Well, he didn't say as much specifically, but I figured— oh. Oh, Maker's _Mercy_!" And then they were laughing again, and a part of Lorelei wondered how long it had been since such happy sounds had filled this part— any part— of Soldiers' Peak.

"Yes, Anders made the trip— unhindered, as it were. They brought him back as naked as the day he was born," she couldn't help but prod them both into more giggles, "And actually managed to preen, the big idiot. Knight-Commander Greagoir was livid, but— well, even the First Enchanter was laughing."

"Anders said that they cancelled the mages' exercise after that." Lorelei made a face.

"Exercise? The Tower has never had exercise for the mages. And neither mages nor apprentices are ever cleared by the Knight-Commander to leave the Tower except for very rare circumstances, and they are always— _always_ — in the presence of a Templar guard."

"But what—" Alistair made the connection in the same second she did, and their mood went from joyous to very somber indeed, "...Oh."

"I have never seen the Knight-Commander so angry, before or since," she admitted, somewhat troubled by the dark turn that their conversation had taken. It was not _surprising_ , exactly— the Chantry was set up in such a way that any discussion of mages, legal or apostate, walked a fine line between innocent and horrific— but it was significantly disturbing that she'd never given much thought to this particular side of the story.

"You don't— need me to smite you or anything, do you?" Alistair's voice— sweet and low and painfully tragic— brought her back to herself, and she immediately checked her mana and her emotions. It was not particularly easy to bring either back into control, but the tension eased from her fellow Warden's frame, and he summoned up a weak— weak for Alistair, but blinding for anyone else— smile. "Oh, good. I wasn't sure if I'd have enough room to do it, honestly."

"We should continue to the top," she said softly, wishing she could wash away this feeling of being _filthy_ as easily as she could actual dirt. She'd never allowed herself to think too long on why Ser Alain had gone outside of the Tower alone with Anders, or how the two Templars on the door had explained their compliance to Greagoir or convinced him of their innocence— never mind their actual motivations. The Tower had been too busy gossiping about Ander's escapade (or his assets) to ask questions about why Anders had been outside the Tower— and just outside the Tower, not sent off to a conference— or about the small group of Templars sent away from the Tower within hours of his return, shifting uncomfortably under the heavy plate in the way of men after having knelt under the lash. She'd _known_ , of course, because Templars talked to each other during their shared patrol, and they hardly noticed her, good little mage that she was— but she'd never let herself really stop and think about what that _meant_ , and what might have happened to Anders— or almost happened to Anders— before he'd jumped into Lake Calenhad in the middle of the night. They'd told _stories_ about Lake Calenhad, and the creatures that might reside in the dark, choppy waters— into which the towers disposed all manner of waste. And she didn't feel at all as if she could actually come out and _ask_ Anders what had happened— too many years had passed, and she didn't exactly have a close relationship with the apostate—turned-Warden- certainly not close enough to comfortably ask such an intimate question.

It _did_ explain, at least in part, why the bitter mage's protests had taken on a more distinct edge after that. He'd grown more quiet, but his escape attempts had become less elaborate and more effective, with him gone for weeks at a time— and when he was brought back, it was with more and more lines on his face and stiffness in his back.

Finally, they reached a door, behind which was a staircase leading to the uppermost chamber of this Tower— far removed from Kinloch Hold, in both location and design— she shoved hard, let the cold air wash over her, and shivered— from her own thoughts as much as from the chill.

* * *

"This is—"

"So what's— oh wow." Alistair may have taken longer to scale the stairs and enter the large, open space at the very top of the tallest tower of Soldiers' Peak, but he wasn't slow to see the value of it— nor did he miss the obvious. "It's— that's a beacon." And it was— there on a raised platform in the center of the room, was a small area meant to contain a flame, encased in glass and equipped with mirrors to enhance the light. This sort of artistry was rare— most beacons were crude things— this showed the same careful, expensive craftsmanship present all over Soldier's Peak.

"Yes," she said, smothering her smile when he rolled his eyes at her.

"But— why would the Wardens have a— a lighthouse? Here?"

"Perhaps it's part of a relay." He made a face at her— specifically, the 'if you're not going to explain what that means I'm going to feel stupid and hate you' face— and she grinned at him. She rather liked explaining things, after all. "A series of signal towers. One signals the other, it signals the next, and so on and so forth. It's a very quick method of sending a message over very long distances— limited, of course, because you've got to communicate by blocking out the light. Usually it's distress signals."

"Does the Circle ever use something like this?"

"No, the Circle has Sending Stones," she answered, "Though not everyone could afford a set of those, as they have to be specifically enchanted to function— and you have to enchant them all at the same time. You can't add to a set once its been made. And— well, using one stone in a set sends the message to all the stones at once."

"Do the mages use—" Lorelei shook her head.

"Sometimes the Senior Enchanters will use the Stones to send a message, but— well, they're valuable, so they're locked up, and used very rarely. And—"

"I'm not going to like this, am I?"

"You're not— they're most often used to announce when The Rite of Annulment has been carried out."

"You're right. I don't like it. Still. It seems really useful." He glanced over at one of the windows; they went all the way around. Even at dusk, light flooded the room, and Lorelei wondered if the beacon were lit, if there would be any shadows at all. It was a strangely appealing idea— a room without shadows. Alistair was standing at one of the widest windows— it was as wide as he was tall, and, like the others, framed with ornate carvings. Alistair made a sound in his throat, and she quickly crossed over to him, her eyes immediately falling to where his steel—clad fingers traced some of the sigils carved into the wood.

"What is it, Alistair?"

"These look like— anti—magic sigils. Only—"

"Only?"

"I've never seen these before." Lorelei looked away from Alistair, towards the beacon, and had a very strange idea.

"Maybe they're not _anti_ -magic," she suggested, and he made a face. "Hold on— I'll cast a light." He nodded, and fell into what she thought of as 'Templar—stance'. She didn't much like to think of Alistair as a _Templar_ — he was, of course, but he was so much more and Templars— well. She was a mage, after all. Before her thoughts could go all the way back to that dark place where the conversation about stairs and Anders had gone, she took a deep breath and called up a mage light, right in the beacon's brazier.

Light exploded from the beacon, and she and Alistair both cried out and moved to shield their eyes. It took several minutes to recover, but when they did, it was far more than Lorelei could have dreamed.

The beacon was aflame and all the sigils were too, all over the beacon's enclosure, across the floor in swirling spirals, spinning outward until they climbed up the walls and around the window frames. And the light—! There wasn't a shadow to be seen, not anywhere.

"Maker," Alistair breathed, and then bowed, offering her hand in an exaggerated gesture of chivalry. "Shall we to the window, my lady?" It was ridiculous, of course, but Lorelei couldn't have smothered her smile to save her life. She took his hand and let him lead her to the window. "This is— wow."

Lorelei's response was lost in laughter and chattering teeth, making her almost regret— not quite, because casting a fire spell in the middle of a series of signals which could have amplified her spell to the point of killing them both would have been beyond foolhardy— casting a light spell instead of a flame. It was beautiful, this uppermost chamber of Soldiers' Peak's lighthouse, but it was _cold_ , even in the bright light of day. It made her wonder: Had they really spent so little— or so much, now _that_ was equally troubling— time in Soldiers' Peak for it to still be day?

The large— some wider than she was tall— windows surrounded the room and she wondered, for a moment, how exactly the light-keepers would have been able to create the blinking required to send a message. She turned in place, squinting against the light, and studied the raised platform. It took her several moments, but when she spied the levers attached to the enclosure and to a crank at the side, she understood- the enclosure was supposed to turn. The alternating transparency of the glass around the sides was not done to cater to the aesthetic whims of the crafter, but was meant to allow the light-keepers to alter the colour and brightness of the signal light.

"Lorelei," Alistair said softly, and something about the way her name sounded made her breath catch in her throat, which was odd because it was just her name. Wasn't it? "Lorelei, you _have_ to see this." Forcing herself to take a slow, steadying breath, Lorelei turned around to see what Alistair was talking about.

* * *

They had, of course, doused the light before they left the beacon room. There was something so appealing about the whole idea that captured her attention and refused to let go: the room of light, the room without shadows, the room where the darkness is banished... Of course, it was just a signal tower, but it felt like so much more, more than the crude beacon atop the Tower of Ishal.

"I'm sorry, what?" If she had been anyone else, she wondered, would Alistair have sighed? Would his expression be one of annoyance rather than worry?

"I said, 'Are you sure this is the way?', because this is—" Lorelei followed his gesture and found that the door they expected to find led not to a straight staircase, but a spiral one— and one so narrow it looked particularly dangerous to traverse. She frowned. "I expected this to be at ground level, but—" he threw his arms wide at the hall around them, though he didn't really have to. "A narrow hallway leading to a narrower staircase?"

"Perhaps it's meant to form a choke-hold," she suggested, pointing to the ledges roughly two or three Alistair-lengths above their heads that looked like good positions for archers or mages to rain death into the corridor. She poked her head through the door, "And I can't imagine it being easy for even darkspawn to get here, not up these stairs, and not if-" she cast several mage-lights and sent them spinning upward, revealing small windows high above, "And if they poured boiling oil from up there-"

"But what about the Wardens?" Alistair's voice was strained, "They'd have to get past here, too, and if they had injuries—" Lorelei left the obvious answer unsaid, knowing that in moments, her brother Warden would put the pieces together himself. "Maker's breath." And there it was.

"It's actually kind of a brilliant idea, even if it does have its drawbacks," she said softly, and looked over to see Alistair's eyes threatening to jump out of their sockets.

"Drawbacks? You sound like— like Avernus," he hissed, and she flinched away from him. "Oh Maker, I'm sorry, I didn't mean—" She looked back to find his anger gone, replaced by contrition and guilt.

"I'm trying to think of things practically," she explained, "It— helps, sometimes, to distract from all the horror of it. If I think of it like that— if I focus on the way this makes it more difficult for the Peak to be taken by darkspawn instead of how anyone at the bottom of this staircase is doomed— it's a little easier to bear."

"And it helps? Really?" She nodded, and his face twisted into an expression of— disbelief, and maybe a little contempt. A part of her wanted to laugh at him, especially knowing what she did about the life he might have had as a Templar— or even as a Warden— had circumstances not shielded him.

"You seem to be forgetting that I was raised in the Chantry," she said, and he drew back as if insulted.

"Well I—"

"Alistair," she thought the censure in her tone was almost gone, but Alistair again looked rather like a kicked puppy, and she offered him a glance at her hands, up-turned and extended in a gesture of peace. "You were inducted into the Chantry as a boy. I was _born_ there— literally. I don't mean to belittle your experiences there, but the marks are somewhat different. And I must admit that I probably lived better than you did, up until my magic manifested— I probably would have become a priestess; I might even have been good at it. But then I was a mage— my magic made me cursed, doomed at any moment to fall victim to demons and become a horror. At every turn, there was a reminder. The templars watch the mages while they sleep. If you can recall any moments that you were able to steal for yourself—" he nodded, and she tried to smile at him. He flinched; she took this to mean that she'd failed. "I cannot. And— Alistair, I _knew_ things. I knew that I was destined to be made Tranquil, along with most of my fellows. If I hadn't learned to distance myself from— from all the terrible things that would have left scars even for my thinking of their possibility, let alone seeing them made real— I would be _mad_ , Alistair. I would never have passed my Harrowing." This time, Alistair flinched again. "You've seen a failed Harrowing, Alistair. What did you tell yourself to lessen the horror of it?"

"I... I understand," he said, and it was clear that he did. Lorelei hoped it would lead to further understanding— and less of a knee-jerk reaction to comments from others that sounded positively heartless. He looked away, then, and Lorelei paid special attention to what he said next. "I told myself that she was already dead, and that there was only the demon. That a quick death was a mercy."

"That she was weak," she answered, "That she didn't resist." He started to protest, and then— he nodded, looking guilty. She hated that her next statement would make him feel worse, but she said it anyway. "She did fight, Alistair. If she hadn't— remember Connor? A willing possession looks more human. A forced one twists the body as well as the mind." Alistair looked like he was about to be sick. "You were right, though— there was probably nothing left of who she was, but let me be clear on this— an Apprentice who fails their Harrowing fails because they aren't able to fully resist, not because they don't resist at all."

"Is it even a possibility? That a mage passes the Harrowing possessed?" She shook her head.

"Newly Harrowed mages are very closely monitored, and those who are possessed always give themselves away in some manner. The Senior Enchanters know which demons they've teased, and they know what to look for. Pride Demons, specifically, tend to give themselves away rather quickly, often in the Harrowing Chamber itself."

"...Oh Maker," Alistair covered his face with his hands, "You must think— what mages must _think_ of the Chantry—"

"It might help you to understand mages a little better," she said, and he nodded, wincing.

"I feel— horrible," he admitted, "I've been— pretty awful to Jowan."

"You have." She smiled weakly at his expression, "But Anders has been worse, and he has less of an excuse. You were raised into a Templar, Alistair. The Chantry wanted you to hate mages." Then her smile widened, "I imagine, however, that they'd be somewhat disappointed."

"In my lack of faith, you mean?"

"In your capacity for compassion and understanding and mercy— the last in a form _other_ than a blade." He brightened at that, and she wondered if his smile wasn't brighter than the beacon. Had it been a true smile, rather than the weak one he sported, she was certain that it would have been.

"Well," he said, looking dubiously at the stairs, "I'll just take my _mercy_ and go down first, shall I? Just in case one of us falls." She nodded.

"I'd hate to have you land on me, in all that plate."

"And _without_ it?" Alistair's face was bright red, and his smile was— more nerves than joy— and it became more strained by the moment as she stared at him in shock. Just as he started to apologise, she laughed.

"It's all right, Alistair," she spoke between gasps of breath as she tried to calm her giggling, "Though I will maybe think a bit more before assigning you to more watches with _Zevran_."

The laughter was like a bright light— it banished many of the dark thoughts and made the descent a little more tolerable.

* * *

The tiny doorway at the bottom of the stairs led to a series of narrow passageways that conformed to their every expectation save one: they weren't dark. Or at least, they didn't _have_ to be; Lorelei's magic illuminated a series of connected torches, and even the floor— made with mostly heavy stone and metal— contained, in its design, several flat stones that Lorelei knew were rare and expensive, stones that absorbed light and then, in the darkness, glowed with its echo.

There appeared to be a lot of _light_ at Soldiers' Peak. Lorelei wondered when, exactly, this had been forgotten to the extent of none of these things being mentioned in the histories— and none of them being copied to other strongholds in Ferelden. They had come, and found demons, ghosts, and a blood mage— and if she hadn't insisted on exploring further, their report to Warren might have ended there, as they sought to leave all that darkness behind them and return to the other side of the mountains.

"If you hadn't insisted that we know everything," Alistair mused, echoing her thoughts as he opened yet another heavy door, "We might never have known— Maker's breath!" She tried to peer past him, and he stepped aside, revealing a much wider, larger chamber— and beyond it, a system of more. "It's like a whole second Keep," he said, recovering from his awe more quickly than she, who managed little more than a simple nod of agreement. Even if the areas around them was not nearly as large as the Keep itself, it could certainly function in that capacity for the scant few Wardens in Ferelden's Order of the Grey. "It looks like people _lived_ down here. And—" he stiffened, and quickly moved into a defensive stance. After several minutes of silence, he straightened, but did not relax. "I sense— I think I sense darkspawn, but it's _different_."

As did she, she realised— and it _was_ different. The darkspawn Taint buzzed and stirred in her blood, but it was not the roiling madness of the Horde, nor the burning frenzy of a raiding party. It was more like a single darkspawn, standing still— waiting. Except it wasn't that either. Alistair moved through the chambers with obvious (and justified) caution, and she followed, magic at the ready.

It was the chest in the laboratory that called them; they realised this as they stood before it, Taint quickening in their blood but not moving, grasping, roiling.

"I think we've found the cache of Archdemon blood." It was a stupidly obvious statement, and she winced when she spoke the words. She preferred to keep herself just outside the 'blatantly idiotic' category of person— for Sten's sake, if not her own.

"And the laboratory where they prepared the Joining," Alistair continued, thankfully not pointing out the idiocy of her statement. In these moments, she was grateful he wasn't Sten, who would have rolled his eyes at her before replying. "Why would they risk this being taken by darkspawn?"

"I don't think they _did_ , not any more than any other compound does," she said slowly, "I think this is as well-defended as any Keep— the entrance to the Deep Roads proper is that way."

"But the barricades, the _stairs_ —"

"Someone very forward-thinking designed this place," she insisted, "Only one piece can fall at a time. Invaded from below, they can hold the Keep. Invaded from above— perhaps they could have fled here." It was an easier answer than the one that posited that this laboratory was researching things both unpredictable and dangerous— perhaps even the Taint itself— and it was possible that the researchers might become a threat themselves, and thus need to be kept away from the bulk of the Keep's inhabitants.

"Then why _didn't_ they?" Lorelei shrugged.

"Once the demons were summoned, the only place to go was up, into the tower. As for before that— I've no idea. But I don't sense the Taint here— except for this— and there are no signs that this place was ever overrun. And—"

"And?"

"And this wasn't on the map that Zevran found. It's possible that once the last Blight faded from memory and the number of Wardens declined, they stopped using this entry to the Deep Roads."

"But if the cache is down here—"

"This is a small cache. It's possible that there was another, smaller one that was smuggled out before the rebellion. If it was widely known that this was here, low as supply has been getting—"

"There's no way Duncan would have put off re-taking the Keep," Alistair finished.

"There's no way that the Grey Wardens would have waited to re-establish this stronghold, not if they knew what they had." She didn't say that it was unlikely that Duncan would have been chosen to lead the Wardens— she had a feeling that he was chosen because of his friendship with the late King Maric, not competence. Perhaps he'd even been chosen because he wasn't competent, not to lead a large order of Wardens— but she'd bite off her own tongue before she said such a thing in Alistair's hearing.

"What if we're not allowed to keep it?" Alistair asked, and she paused to consider the question.

"It's probably for the best if Warren doesn't tell Loghain about some things," she admitted, and Alistair snorted at the understatement. "Even as he trusts Warren, he is suspicious of all Grey Wardens, not just Orlesian ones."

She waited a beat, and then said, "I suppose that we really should take a look at the door that _actually_ leads to the Deep Roads."

* * *

The door to the Deep Roads, when they finally reached it, was solid and showed no signs of having been breached. It wasn't ornate— next to the doors and corridors leading up to it, it was positively plain— but it was well-made. Lorelei suspected that it might be Dwarven in design.

"Looks solid," Alistair banged on the door, the sound of his gauntlet echoing down the hall. "So I suppose our job is done. Soldiers' Peak is safe from darkspawn."

"At least from here— and for now," Lorelei said carefully, remembering how they'd arrived using underground tunnels— and remembering what might have been the entrance to a mine outside of the Keep proper. "But— yes. We should head back. The others will probably be waiting for us by now."

Alistair was about to say something when it hit her— she stumbled forward, as if struck at the point between her shoulder blades, and she reached out towards Alistair, who took hold of her arms to steady her.

"Lorelei? Lorelei, what is it?"

"I don't know," she said, and it was true. It was an odd sort of _pull_ , and then a push, and then the pull again. And it was pulling her down, and then West, making her disoriented and confused by the sense of movement; she was clearly still, as Alistair was holding her in place. She reached for her magic and the feeling disappeared in the rush of it— the sharp taste of mana and the buzz of lyrium on her tongue— but she wasn't sure if the cause had gone— or just her awareness of it.

So she sent her magic outward and clung to Alistair, following the feeling until she felt as if she was far away and under water. It felt like blood magic and darkspawn Taint and something else entirely, and when she felt very close to it, something— stirred, and she felt a groggy sort of— surprise, curiosity— and then a blind, seething anger that sent her reeling backward into something hard and cold. It was both like and unlike what she'd felt under Avernus's control, and she found it even more frightening, in its own way. It felt worse than losing control; it felt like losing _herself_.

She knew somehow that Alistair was calling her name, and that he was repeating it over and over, but it might as well have been one of Sten's curse words for all it mattered.

Except that it was her name, on _his_ lips, and the knowledge of that was enough. It was more than enough, and she pulled herself away from— whatever it was— and sagged in his arms, feeling the lines of his armour on her back. The cold and hard behind her had been Alistair's armour, and he her anchor even as she'd been tossed about in the stormy world of the Fade. If it had indeed _been_ the Fade— she couldn't be sure.

"Lorelei? _Lorelei_!"

"I felt something," she said softly, "But it's far away and— I don't think it noticed me." She felt an odd tightness in her chest at the lie, and she rushed to amend her statement, "I don't think it— had any _sense_ of me."

"I don't understand."

"Nor do I," she offered him a bitter smile and he returned it, along with more than his fare share of worry. "It will wait, I think. Let's get back to the others."

* * *

The entrance to the Deep Roads is secure," Lorelei silenced Alistair with a look; after a few seconds, his pout disappeared, replaced with a grim expression she took to be understanding, and she continued, "We also located a cache of ingredients necessary for the Joining, as we'd hoped to. I suspect that there is— or was— another, located somewhere else in the Keep, but we do not have time to do a more in-depth exploration. It is enough that it is secure for the time being— it is secure in other areas, right?"

"There were a few more traps, though nothing I couldn't deal with." Kallian took up the conversation effortlessly, and with a grin that was just this side of feral, "I've added some more, of course, which I'll mark on the map later." Levi and Jowan looked a bit uncomfortable, and Lorelei might have been worried if it were anyone other than _Kallian_ ; the displaced Elf from the Denerim Alienage was a viper, but she was also shockingly loyal, even with less reason to be than most. Lorelei would bet several sovereigns on there being 'surprises' to which even Levi and Jowan were not privy.

"The outer fortifications will suffice," Sten added, glowering enough to make Levi cower, but softening just enough around the edges for Lorelei to realise that he was pleased.

"There's a lot of land here," Alistair said finally, glancing at Lorelei as everyone else turned their eyes to him. She nodded, and he continued, "It doesn't look like anything to rival the Bannorn, of course, but I think the Wardens could carve out some farm-holds, and maybe raise goats, like they do west of Redcliffe, nearer to the Frostback Mountains."

"I approve of this," Sten said, "There is a possibility for self-sufficiency here."

"And the necessity," Jowan pointed out. "It won't be easy to transport supplies up here, not through those tunnels and certainly not over the mountains."

"We could see a break in the mountains to the North," Lorelei answered, "So with time and work, perhaps a port—"

"Oooh, a port," Zevran was smiling too widely, "I do so _love_ port cities."

"Me too," Kallian answered, gaining several looks in response— the longest of them from Zevran, "Though it's mostly the city part. I'm ready to head back towards Amaranthine City, if the rest of you don't mind."

"I feel much the same," Lorelei admitted, "But— we should camp here before we head back. We won't make it through the tunnels before nightfall, and we're all tired— too tired for it to be safe." Kallian made a face of disappointment— disappointment that rippled through everyone in turn— but Lorelei knew that she, and they, understood.

"Will you bunk with me, lovely Warden?" Lorelei glanced at Alistair, then at Zevran, and then— she laughed.

"I suppose not," the Antivan Elf sighed heavily, then turned to Kallian, who cut him off before the words were out of his mouth.

"Don't try it on me," she snapped, "I'm _no one'_ s second choice, and most definitely not yours."

"Forgive me," Zevran purred, "I did not realise that I had insulted you, my beautiful temp _est_." From the leer on his face and the odd stress at the end of the word, Lorelei wondered if he'd meant to use another word, similar in sound, but different in meaning.

Kallian threw her hands up and stalked off, muttering something about suicidal Antivans.

"There's a stream that way," Lorelei explained hurriedly to Alistair; he quickly caught her meaning and tossed her a bundle which she caught gratefully before setting off after Kallian.

"Please call for Zevran if you need help with those— hard to reach areas, Warden!" Lorelei didn't pause, but from the wet thud and coughing that followed, she gathered that Alistair had shoved him into a conveniently placed snowbank.

* * *

"You can magic us dry, right?" Lorelei stopped in her tracks, and not just because of the statement. Kallian was blithely building mock armour stands at the side of the river, twisting a carving knife first this way, and then that, to make the appropriate notches. Lorelei knew the lithe woman to be many things— but she had never thought of her as any sort of craftswoman. Kallian looked up at her, saw her surprise, and then flashed _that_ grin again— that grin that was wild and dangerous, more mask and warning than greeting or offer of comfort.

"The Dalish do this, sometimes," she explained, "Once its purpose has been fulfilled, it comes apart easily and can be used for firewood— or small crafts, if the wood is good enough."

"You've learned a lot from them." Kallian shrugged, looking away, and Lorelei was struck again by just how beautiful she was: without that hostility— knives in her hands and teeth naked and bared— all the harsh lines seemed to melt away, leaving an Elven girl behind where there had been a wild creature. She looked a little bit lost, and terribly sad, glancing down as she did at the simple band on her left ring finger.

"I learned enough," was the answer, and it was immediately obvious that a line was being drawn— a line only Kallian could decide when it would be crossed, by whom, and by how much. "So. You can magic us warm and dry, right?"

"Yes." Lorelei knew how to take a hint, and when Kallian first indicated one of the armour stands and then began to undress, she followed suit, skin prickling at the cold breeze and muscles tensing in anticipation of even colder water.

It was still a shock when she jumped in, and Lorelei couldn't quite contain herself— she cried out, and was answered by shrieking laughter and splashing.

"I'd much rather have a real bath," Kallian chattered, and Lorelei half-laughed, half-chattered in agreement. "Not that the water was ever hot, or even always clean, but living with the Dalish sure makes you appreciate tubs and lukewarm water. And real soap." As if to illustrate this, she tossed Lorelei a small, vaguely square— thing, which Lorelei sniffed experimentally.

"This smells like—"

"Dirt and leaves!" Kallian finished, "The Dalish don't much like perfumes and the like, especially the hunters. They say it scares the game away even more than the smell of sweat and blood. Maybe it does." The golden-haired Elf shrugged, and then ducked under the water again, rinsing out her hair. It was shorter than Lorelei's now, and looked like it had not been cut by a stylist, but with a blade, and in a hurry. She wondered when exactly this had happened— sometime after the three groups had gone their own ways, certainly. It was oddly becoming, rough as it was.

"It's— sensible," Lorelei allowed, using the grainy bar— there was some mix of sand and herbs, and it scraped against the skin, though not unpleasantly— to remove the sweat and dirt and blood of Soldiers' Peak and then lobbing it right back at Kallian.

"You think Sten would approve?" Kallian adopted a pose that was all Sten— complete with broody expression and arms crossed over her chest— though it was somewhat ruined by her nakedness, and the fact that she lacked anywhere near the sort of bulk that the Qunari possessed. Lorelei laughed, and Kallian sent several handfuls of water at her. It felt— like a sort of camaraderie that she'd never known, and it made her glad and sad all at once.

"What will you do? Once we've returned to Amaranthine?" she asked suddenly. When Kallian's expression morphed abruptly into a closed-off one, and Lorelei immediately regretted the question. "I mean— what would you _like_ to do?"

"Well, I'll keep teaching you to use knives, if you're amenable," Kallian said stiffly, and Lorelei frowned, not sure how she'd given the impression that she wouldn't be.

"I didn't mean—"

"I— I know. I'm sorry." She didn't sound sorry. She sounded _angry_ , even for her.

"Kallian—"

"You _can_ call me Kali, you know." Lorelei blinked, confused; it was as if she was suddenly having a very different conversation.

"I— Kali. I just meant— what is it that you _want_ to do? I'm glad of your company, and doubly grateful for what you're teaching me, but I feel as if there's something else. Something that _you_ want that's nothing to do with me. And maybe if you tell me, I can help."

"I don't belong," the Elf said finally, lovely voice roughened by emotion that caught Lorelei's breath and held it hostage. "I don't fit in with the Dalish and I can't go back to the Alienage and— _well_. Warren said that I was welcome in the Compound at any time, but I can't just follow you Wardens around until I find my purpose, can I?"

"You faced down an Archdemon."

"No I didn't— _you_ did! Sten did! _I_ hid behind a ballista!" Kallian was shouting now, and Lorelei blinked at her until she turned crimson and started heading out of the stream and back to her armour. Lorelei ducked under the water one last time and then followed, the spell to warm them both on her lips.

It died when she saw the burn scars on Kallian's back.

"Kallian—" The Elf flinched, "How?"

"I was— running to you, and then I threw myself flat, but— well. The weird blast of light from you killing the Archdemon shattered some vials in my pack, and I wasn't able to get my gear off fast enough. I was okay, in the end. It's just ugly." Kallian was already pulling her shirt on over the scars, and Lorelei hesitated, then said her spell and followed suit. "No one really knows about it aside from that Anders guy, and I'd— appreciate it if it stayed that way, since I kind of wish _he_ didn't know about it."

"It isn't any business of mine or anyone else's, Kali," Lorelei said gently, "Though— I'm sorry, for what it's worth."

" _Listen_ to yourself," Kallian snarled, and Lorelei drew back from the sound with such violence that she nearly tripped over her own legs in the process, "Saving the world and then _apologizing_ for a bit of scarring. It's just one more thing with you— you're too busy trying to save people that you don't properly defend yourself and even when you're not, you're set to get yourself killed because you're too _sorry_ to shut up and fight, even when it means your life! Your _life_ , which means nothing to _you_ but maybe it means something to someone else! To _everyone_ else! Tell me, _Warden_ , when you die— if you die, do you honestly think _sorry_ will be anywhere near enough? Do you think that no one cares?"

Lorelei stared at Kallian, realising that maybe she'd never seen _this_ woman before, panting clouds of frozen breath between bared teeth.

"This is about what happened in there with Sophia Dryden," she didn't fully understand how true the words were until she'd spoken them, "And how Jowan almost died because he saved me." Kallian wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and then glared at the moisture there as if it had committed a horrible crime against her.

"I'm not supposed to _care_ about what happens to shems," she said softly, and Lorelei realised that this was about much, much more than her or Jowan. "I'm an _Elf_ and— and—" Before she even knew what she was doing, Lorelei had crossed the distance between them and put her arms around the too-sharp, too-angry, too-beautiful woman who'd arrived in Denerim only to leave at the first chance of adventure and to have no one ask her _why_. "So many died because of _me_ ," Kallian whispered, "Because I escaped. They did a purge of the Alienage and— and when I found out all I could do was be grateful that Shianni and my father survived, even if Soris— and I couldn't even _cry_ and then that idiot jumped in front of a blade and I couldn't _not_ and I was so glad it wasn't you and _I don't understand_ , you're a _shem_ , I shouldn't care, not when I can't even cry for my own—"

Lorelei didn't shush her, not because she didn't dare, but because she knew Kallian had shushed herself more than enough already, and maybe it was better for her to cry and be done with it. Or not be done with it. She let the words and tears wash over her like she had the river and wondered right along with Kallian why she was so important to so many people, from Alistair to Loghain, to Jowan, right down to Sten and this city Elf who had every reason to fear her as a mage and hate her as a human— well. _Mostly_ human, but the Orlesian bit likely made up for that.

When Kallian pushed her away, she was wearing a fierce look on her face that expressed her feelings so well that Lorelei could predict what she was about to say, word for word and breath for breath.

"If you ever tell anyone—"

"You'll think of something," Lorelei finished, using her most wry tone and wringing a strained smile from this woman, this Elf— and her friend. "I imagine that it would be quite something; sadly, I have no such intention."

"Well, good." Kallian glanced towards camp, then gathered up some snow to rub the last signs of grief away from her face. "We should get back, before that creep Zevran decides to come spy on us."

"Alistair is probably already keeping him occupied," Lorelei meant the words to be a reassurance, but it was the smirk on Kallian's face that clued her in to the possible double meaning behind them. She sighed— but she couldn't help smiling a little, too.


End file.
